


The Falling

by PetraTodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Fairy Tales, Little Red Riding Hood - Freeform, Magic, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/pseuds/PetraTodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairy tale for adults. A mysterious disease is ravaging the land, and strange things are happening in the forests. Village healer Molly encounters a wolf on the way to Grandmother's House, and her life will never be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wolf

In the darkness of alleys and doorways, the wolf waited and watched. He vanished from the vision of the villagers passing by, common fools too wrapped up in their brief lives to notice a true threat. His boots made no sound as they struck the cobblestoned street, and his light footprints were barely discernible in the dusty side paths. He was no more than a flash of movement in the corner of the villagers' eyes, a flicker that caused an uneasy wrinkle to form between their eyes before being quickly forgotten.

 

Leaning against the tavern, the wolf's sharp eyes followed the slim shape of a young woman hurrying down the road. A blood red cloak enveloped her, secured at the neck, with only a few pale brown curls escaping from the scarlet hood. It hung low on her forehead, brushing the smooth brows above her wide brown eyes. A wheat-colored basket dangled loosely from her hand. Her cheeks bloomed with color from the brisk fall air, and she waved happily at a raven-haired woman sweeping her doorstep.

 

She moved with purpose and awareness, her head turning side to side often to be certain she would be unbothered in the busy village. The confidence of her energetic stride suggested this was the path she walked every day.

 

_A woman alone, used to caring for herself_ , the wolf realized, sniffing the air. _No one to protect her._ _Prey. Make her run._

_  
_

_No,_ the cool and orderly human side of his brain advised him. _She is of the blood._

_  
_

The wolf watched as the woman beamed at her dark-haired friend and crossed the narrow street to join her on the doorstep. The women exchanged warm greetings, and disappeared into the shop.

 

He could follow her. Her scent was strong and distinct in his nostrils: lavender and mandrake root and rosemary and summerberries. A trace of pine needles and wood smoke underscoring the sweeter odors that emanated from her hands. She smelled wild and fresh under her demure red cloak, and it was all he could do not to break down the door and sink his teeth into the soft flesh of her throat. Tear her apart and bathe in the redness.

 

_No_ , his quicksilver mind admonished him. _Not yet._

_  
_

* * *

Molly Hooper brightened as she spotted her friend on the front step of her shop. She waved and dashed across the street to join the other woman, hoping the new pots would be ready. She was already off to a late start, having overslept after staying up late preparing the remedies. Her right hand still ached from clutching the pestle and grinding away at leaves for hours. And if she didn't arrive before dark, Grandmother would worry and badger her even more than usual in her loving way.

 

"Molly! I thought you were visiting the Colony today?" Soo Lin smiled, set aside her broom, and squeezed her friend's arm. She looked lovely as always in her cranberry-colored day dress, though the bodice was dotted with clay dust. The potter stepped through the doorway and gestured to follow. She brushed her palms on her forest-green apron, and ducked behind her counter.

 

Molly pushed back the red hood and placed her basket on the countertop where the wares were displayed. The morning had been a busy one for Soo Lin, Molly saw. Several bright new bowls her friend had finished glazing only the day before had already been purchased, and she noted a clean collecting bucket set down by the door.

 

"I am, yes. I've bought some roasted chicken and berries and apples for Grandmother to bring along with the remedies. I was hoping the new medicine pots would be ready?" She glanced at the bucket again. "Do you need a hand gathering more clay before I go? Those pails get so heavy."

 

Soo Lin shook her head, and ducked behind her counter to rummage through a shelf. "I'll manage it later. I'm no delicate miss." She laughed softly, her dark eyes shining, and drew out two small lidded pots from the lower shelf. "For your herbs. I've added a triple-glaze, a new kind of enamel a man from the West sold me. They should keep ingredients fresh longer."

 

"Oh, these are wonderful!" Molly cradled one pot, lifting the tiny lid to admire the delicate work the potter had accomplished. A crimson eight-pointed star inside a black circle decorated each brown container and its matching lid. Molly traced the lines of the unfamiliar symbol. "And you didn't have to paint them too- they're beautiful. Let me give you more coin, this is too-"

 

"No, no, I did it for my own selfish pleasure." A mischievous grin appeared on Soo Lin's face. The playfulness was unusual in the potter, whose solitary ways and quietness had unfairly earned her a reputation for standoffishness among the villagers. "With the plague spreading, no one has money for extra touches. I know it's wrong to think of beauty when times are growing dark, but I miss the challenge, the ritual of painting…and the colors, of course. There's something rather sad about the plain pots- purpose without joy." She shrugged, and Molly saw wistfulness in her before Soo Lin turned away.

 

The potter brushed her hands again on her apron, and spun back around to face Molly. "Forgive me. Rambling about pots, such nonsense." Her expression turned sheepish. "Michael Stamford was in this morning. Purchased the large blue bowl, and said it was a _gift_."

 

Molly groaned as she tucked the clay containers into her basket. "Perhaps it was for his mother. Or a cousin. Or his goat," she added hopefully.

 

The women broke into exasperated laughter, and Molly sighed. "He is such a good man. An apothecary would be an ideal match. He would be a good father. He's kind, he has a beautiful home here in the village, and I can't bear the thought of accepting his proposal. He speaks, and I have to recite calla balm ingredients in my head to stay awake. I know everyone thinks I'm mad to not leap at the chance to be married again, but I need more than safety."

 

_This time,_ Molly silently added.

 

"I don't think you're mad." Soo Lin picked up a clean rag and dipped it in a bowl of water. She rubbed the countertop clean, and wrung the cloth over another bowl as she considered Molly's confession. "If you accept Michael's proposal, you may grow to care for him, but you may also grow to loathe him. You love your home and your garden near the forest; why abandon your happiness for a man whom you merely regard as kind and nothing more? And who smells sometimes of goat?"

 

Molly giggled and breathed in relief. "Yes, that is exactly right. He has to accept a final no. It's all so simple when you say it. I am grateful you came here. The last few years would have been very dull without you." She hesitated for a heartbeat before continuing on. "I know times have been difficult since your brother…left, but you will always have my friendship."

 

Impulsively she reached for Soo Lin's hand and squeezed it.

 

The black-haired woman held her hand, and her almond-shaped eyes were fierce. "And you will always have mine, Molly Hooper."

 

She stepped back quickly, and her eyes darted to the oaken cabinet in the corner.

 

"I have something else for you, actually. A gift. You've been traveling to the Colony so often, and with those two woodsmen disappearing last week, I thought you might need this. As a precaution."

 

* * *

Molly set out for the Colony in the later afternoon, having scanned the skies and felt confident the rain would hold out. The autumn had been mild, with nothing more than the occasional shower. As Molly strode down the shaded path between the trees, she felt the oppressive airs of the village fall away, and the crisp freshness of the forest filled her. The leaves had already turned, and the poplars and maple trees became brilliant clusters of burgundy and orange and lemon-yellow. Molly stooped to pick up an unusually pink leaf, and tucked it into her basket, atop Soo Lin's gift folded in a clean rag.

 

A squirrel wrestled with an oversized nut under a bush, and she startled the creature with her laugh. He eyed her suspiciously and disappeared into the wilderness, his bushy tail stiff in offense.

 

She adjusted her hood, looped her forearm through the basket handle again, and continued on her way. Grandmother would be waiting, unable to focus properly until Molly arrived as planned. No matter that she was always late, and that there was much work to be done for the unfortunate residents of the Colony. When the last surviving child of her daughter was traveling alone, Grandmother would fret until Molly was safe in her cottage.

 

The afternoon grew cooler as she moved through the corridor of trees. The path was old and oft-used, the dirt beaten down and the fallen leaves kicked to the wayside. The woods were oddly quiet.

 

_Getting hunkered down for winter, I suppose_ , she thought, _though it seems a bit early for that._

_  
_

Molly hummed as she walked, though her arm began to tire after nearly an hour. She sang louder, a ditty she'd heard someone singing outside the tavern, about a milkmaid.

 

_Our girl, she cares for the cows,_

_Gathering up the milk,_

_Her skill is unmatched, aye,_

_There's none so fair of her ilk._

_Our girl, she makes delicious cream,_

_And churns the best sort of butters,_

_Her skill is unmatched, aye,_

_Her clever hands with our udders._

_  
_

Molly skipped along the path, looking around out of habit as she remembered how each verse increased in riskiness. She stopped to pluck a leaf of wild basil. As she straightened, she noticed the sky where it peeped through the canopy was fading toward twilight.

 

Uneasiness rippled in Molly's belly.

 

_It's far too early, isn't it? It hasn't been so long, I don't think._ She scanned the narrow path ahead and estimated she was three-quarters of the way to Grandmother's house on the edge of the Colony. _It should be light at least another hour._

As she stood considering the strange sky, Molly heard the distinct crack of a branch breaking, followed by the unmistakable crunch of something landing heavily on dead leaves.

 

Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and her pulse sped up. The faces of the woodsmen who had gone missing flashed through her mind. Prickles of awareness stung the back of her neck. She spun around- and saw nothing but a bush moving with the gentle wind.

 

"Just a branch from a tree, it's nothing, it's just…a branch," she trailed off. She steeled herself and turned back to the path, forcing her feet to march forward.

 

Pushing ahead with resolve, Molly ignored the goosebumps on her skin and the fear curdling in her stomach. As she moved on, the distant sound of a stream cutting through the forest reassured her. She was getting close- the stream actually cut through the Colony, providing a small source of clean water for those too weak to climb to the well on the hill. She smiled and felt her tension slip away as she realized how near she was to Grandmother's house.

 

She had thoroughly convinced herself she imagined the whole thing when she happened to glance to the left, and see a pair of bright yellow eyes peering at her.

 

She blinked hard, and stumbled. Her fists squeezed around the handle of her basket, and Molly felt as though her heart came to a stop.

 

Her brown eyes met the yellow ones in the bushes, and she felt her stomach heave. She took a step backward, and the instinctive retreat drew the creature forward out of the growing darkness.

 

A grey wolf slunk out of the bushes, his eyes capturing hers. It looked like the animals she had seen in drawings, only this one was nearly twice the size of the largest wolf she'd ever seen in pictures. He was a deep smoky grey from ears to tail, with thick muscles tensing under his fur. As he crept closer, Molly frozen in shock, she realized the tips of his ears were almost at the height of her chest. His eyes blazed at her, and his tongue lapped at his muzzle. His mouth stretched in an awful grin.

 

_Hungry,_ she thought, in a daze. Her stunned mind drifted toward the basket clutched in her hands, the basket smelling of fruit and herbed chicken. Had the scent drawn the massive animal to her? Her fingers began to move down to open the flap.

 

_Don't. Stay very still,_ she heard Grandmother's cheery voice in her mind. An old memory resurfaced and she froze anew. Molly remembered being very small and being lectured by the hearth after a wolf had attacked a child during a hard winter. _Don't move, don't run from a wolf._ _It's what they want, what they need to hunt._

_  
_

Her gaze was locked with the wolf's, and she sensed impatience in his shifting paws. His mouth curled, his teeth bared and Molly sucked her bottom lip into her mouth to keep from screaming. Her body burned from resisting the urge to run, ignoring the rush of energy that coursed through her body and told her _, Flee, this thing is your death._

_  
_

She gasped, and Molly broke.

 

She turned and ran.

 

The wolf threw back his head and howled, a joyful proud wail that drew a sob from Molly as she crashed through the bushes, away from the naked path where there was nowhere to hide. She fled and her muscles stretched and drove her faster than she'd ever run in her life. Her red cloak snagged on a branch and she yanked it away in a panic, leaving a strip of scarlet fabric from the hem behind. After a moment of bloodcurdling howling, she heard the terrifying crash of the wolf into the leaf-strewn bed of the forest, following behind her.

 

Her legs carried her toward the stream. In the tiny piece of her mind that was still logical, she knew she could become lost very quickly as the sky darkened. She heard the roar of the overflowing brook, and a desperate hope took hold of her.

 

Molly scampered up the rocky side of the small hill toward the brook. She recalled the tall pine trees on the other side of the stream.

 

_Dogs can't climb very well, can they? Are wolves different?_ Breathing heavily, Molly slid down the other side of the hill toward the water. She waded through the knee-high water, tripping on stones. An idea dropped into her racing mind.

 

Instead of crossing the brook, Molly ran through the water upstream. If the wolf couldn't scent her, he couldn't track her, could he? She wasn't certain, but the shocked numbness was wearing off. The fear was sharp and her eyes welled as she hopped through the water as quietly as she could manage. The forest was dim around the stream, and she prayed she was still headed in the right direction. If she could just get far enough ahead, she could hide for a while until the wolf lost interest and wandered off.

 

The basket still dangled from her hand, squeezing it tight out of long habit. If she lost the medicine, she couldn't make more for another month, and many would be in terrible pain. She gripped the handle and sloshed through the water, the coldness beginning to pain her. Weariness set in as she pushed against the current.

 

Molly tugged the hood back onto her head, hoping that the blood red would appear black and make her invisible in the twilight. She picked her way across the rocky bottom of the water and tripped on a jagged stone, landing on her hands and knees on the wet grass beside the stream. The basket rolled onto the ground beside her, tipped but unharmed. The new pots inside clanked against one another and she winced, hoping they hadn't broken.

 

She cursed under her breath, pulled herself to sitting, and tugged her skirt up to her thighs to rub at scraped knees. Something splashed the water to her right, and her gaze flew up to find two unflinching yellow eyes glowing at her.

 

* * *

Her heart pounded inside her chest, and this time she didn't question or fight it: she froze.

 

She hoped.

 

Light from the rising moon glinted off the shimmering water. The wolf tilted its head to the side and she realized it wasn't the same creature.

 

This wolf was just as massive, but his fur was dark brown, mottled with red patches. His belly was pale beige, and the thin fur around his muzzle was white. He watched her intently, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. His muzzle was soaked as though he'd been drinking the streamwater, and after a few seconds of shocked staring, something odd occurred to Molly.

 

_I surprised him. And he looks…annoyed?_

_  
_

Yes, annoyance was the right word for the expression on the wolf's face.

 

His yellow eyes fell to Molly's exposed knees and the trace of blood on one. The wolf padded forward, his damp paws moving quietly on the soil. He dipped his nose low to her legs and sniffed.

 

She drew in a breath to scream, but it died in her mouth when the animal simply scented the back of her knee, his wet nose startling but not painful. She'd never thought canines had much expression but his face seemed almost curious as he learned her smell.

 

She chewed on her lips, resisting the urge to push the wolf away. He lacked the urgency of the other creature, and she had no desire to inspire him to chase.

 

The wolf abruptly drew back from her body, his eyes wary and distrustful. His ears stiffened and he swung around.

 

Hearing nothing, Molly bent forward to see what had drawn his notice.

 

The dark grey wolf stood high on the embankment over them. His thick paws had made no noise, it seemed to her ears, despite the difficulty of climbing the rocky hill.

 

He snarled and his malevolent eyes were aimed at the other wolf instead of Molly this time. The two large creatures took each other in, and she had the sense that this battle had nothing to do with her.

 

The wolves stared tensely, hairs standing on end and faces shifting, more teeth showing as seconds passed. Molly had the unkind wish that these two animals would duel each other and let her escape in the meantime. Or at least give her time to retrieve Soo Lin's gift from the basket.

 

The grey wolf yipped, and the one by her side tilted his head again. He didn't approach the other creature but he didn't retreat. His cool yellow eyes stayed trained on his apparent enemy.

 

Almost as confused as she was frightened, Molly's gaze bounced between two, waiting for an opportune moment to run.

 

The wolf on the hill made an odd noise that sounded almost like laughter. He sneered down at them, and turned, vanishing into the forest beyond.

 

The brown and red wolf glanced back at Molly, and his eyes alit on her knees again. He bent his head toward her, and then seemed to catch himself. The animal stepped back slowly, and then jumped into the brush alongside the stream. She saw his mottled fur gleaming in the dim light as he streaked away from her, his powerful legs carrying him into the darkness.

 

Molly scrambled to her feet, grabbed the basket and wasted no time running along the side of the stream. The red cloak weighed heavily on her back and throat, and was soaked and filthy, but she wouldn't abandon it when she was close to safety. She climbed over the stony hill, through the trees, and finally across the field overgrown with weeds and ferns. When she saw the lantern lights of the Colony appear ahead of her, Molly nearly wept with gratefulness.


	2. The Colony

Molly awoke snuggled under several blankets on the narrow cot at Grandmother's small cottage, wearing only her underthings. After a moment's disorientation, she recalled the older woman nagging her out of her wet and muddied clothes as she related her frightening journey through the woods. Gran had clucked and fretted about the wolves, and set to scrubbing Molly's belongings and soaking her scarlet cloak in the wash tub. She gave Grandmother only the bare bones of her harrowing story, unsure of how to explain the encounter with the second wolf by the stream. The contents of the basket were amazingly not ruined, though the roasted chicken had fallen to pieces.

 

"Never mind that, dearie, it'll make for a lovely stew. And the remedies are sorely needed." Gran had frowned slightly as she ran her fingers over the unusual design Soo Lin had painted on the pots. "Haven't seen these in years. Strange woman, that potter."

 

"What do you mean?" Molly was sleepy and nodding off on the cot by that time, the rush of energy from the chase having burned off and left her exhausted.

 

"The hex." She tipped the painted side of the medicine pot toward Molly. "They were popular when I was a girl, though the star inside the circle usually only had five or six points. Eight is a bit much, eh? Good for warding off the plague and other evils," Gran said thoughtfully.

 

She wrinkled her nose and added, "Superstitious nonsense, of course. If you want to keep the evils out, there's nothing like a good sage burning."

 

"That's true." The flickering fire from the hearth and familiar smell of the cottage lulled Molly and she felt herself drifting off. "Is the peppermint oil alright? Your hip…"

 

"Oh it's atrocious as ever but I'll use the oil on the patients, they need it more. Besides, the new healer we've just got from the North prepares an herbal concoction, and it works just as well. He's been a great help to the Colony. I'll introduce you to him to tomorrow."

 

Grandmother leaned over her and kissed her forehead. She was reassuringly the same as ever to Molly, her greying brown hair tucked under a white cap and a warm smile on her face. She snuffed the candle by the bed and bid goodnight. "Sleep long and well. There's much to be done. The Falling has brought us twelve more souls since you visited last."

 

* * *

Molly tugged on the sleeves of the undersized old dress borrowed from Grandmother while her own clothes dried on the rope. Her cloak on the clothesline flapped against itself in the strong autumn wind, the bloody red contrasting the dying golden grasses beyond the yard. She crossed the field between the cottage and the fence, grateful for the sunny morning. The breezes were strong but her face was warm and cheeks rosy as she neared the caves.

 

A short ashen-haired man stood near the entranceway, arguing with a youngling who held onto an armful of orange ivy defiantly.

 

"Don't care, it's mine!" the boy shouted as Molly drew close.

 

"But if you're eating it, it could be what's making you ill," the tired-looking man replied. He ran a hand through his short greying hair, and his jaw clenched in frustration.

 

"I don't eat them, I'm not stupid. I just like to look at them. Hey Molly! Mum, the _good_ healer's here. Come out!" the boy shouted into the cave. He waved and jogged toward her as Molly opened the gate while trying not to jostle her basket. She'd emptied it of everything but the necessary treatment for the ill.

 

"Did you bring any grapes this time?" the boy asked hopefully. His wide grin and freckles softened the harsh effects of the disease on his face, but the rashes and the beginning of infection on one boil still pained her to see. Peter had been living at the Colony for six months, and the Falling had settled into his body comfortably, taking him into the middle stage where recovery was unlikely. The middle stage could last as long as two years with the rot coming toward the end of the period, but after that paralysis and death came quickly.

 

"I'm sorry, Peter, I didn't. It was a poor growing season this year. I do have a letter from your aunt. Is your mum feeling well today?"

 

Peter shrugged. "She fell when she tried to get up so she's staying on the blankets. I'll bring her the letter. She'll be right grateful for a bit of gossip." Molly drew the folded letter from her basket and he snatched it from her gleefully.

 

"Do you suppose I could have a word with your mum, if I go into the cave?" the unfamiliar man interrupted. Peter gave him a filthy look and ran for the caves, brandishing the letter.

 

"Apologies, miss, I'm a healer, but it seems the residents don't care for new faces."

 

Molly frowned, but then her face cleared. "Oh you're the one Grandmother mentioned! I'm sorry, I had a strange night and I'm not as quick as usual. I'm Molly Hooper." She set down her basket and extended her hand.

 

"John Watson." He smiled, and his tired face transformed into a much younger one. His eyes were a brilliant dark blue, and the lines around his mouth and eyes show good humor. His handshake was firm and the palms callused.

 

A hard worker, Molly thought to herself, not the sort of healer to delegate the treatment to apprentices. So many healers sat back and collected piles of coin while never touching a sick person, but John Watson was clothed in plain trousers and a worn tunic. His only adornment was the silver ring on his left hand.

 

"Are you staying long, Mister Watson?"

 

"John, please. And yes, for the foreseeable future. I was helping a colony back home, and trying to see if I could learn more about the cause. Thought some people were beginning to improve, but after a second wave of lung sickness this summer…Well, there wasn't much point in staying anymore."

 

She understood. Once their bodies were weakened by the Falling, all sorts of infection preyed on the afflicted, and a simple summer cold was often fatal. A dedicated healer like John would only have abandoned the colony up north for one reason: they were all dead.

 

"Is that why you wanted to speak with Peter's mum? We've searched long and hard to find a cause for the disease, but there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason, other than those living in the village center itself are more likely to contract it. Like Peter and his mother- she ran the tavern with her husband. He passed on two months ago, after the rot took hold in his leg." Molly dug through the basket, looking for the other letters while she searched her brain. "Good hygiene doesn't improve one's chances, and the food doesn't seem to be a factor. Grandmother and I have searched and read what we could, but we've found nothing."

 

As Molly and the new healer walked slowly down to the caves, a dozen hooded and robed figures emerged from the darkness.

 

"In the village itself? That's interesting." He scratched his ear, and glanced at the shuffling patients. "I hadn't noticed that up north. I would still like to speak with everyone though. I really thought I was making progress before they…" John trailed off, his eyes haunted for a moment, before being distracted by the approaching people.

 

"We can't change the past, but we can keep searching for answers," Molly said gently, squeezing his arm. "Let's get to work, shall we?"

 

* * *

In the darkness of the cave, he waited and watched. The brown robe he wore was loose on his lean body and the hood covered most of his face. The cowl was a style favored by the victims of the Falling, who couldn't bear snug clothing on their inflamed and sometimes decaying skin. It suited his purposes as well- it was a garment easy to slip in and out of quickly and it disguised his preternatural grace. Though he could affect the gravelly voice and stooped posture of a sick man, his unmarked porcelain skin and healthy muscles would expose him as a fraud.

 

He had gathered all he could on this visit from the caves and the shacks that sheltered the victims. He'd have liked to get a urine sample from one of them at each stage of the illness to study, but humans were embarrassed by their body functions. It would draw too much attention if he asked for some of their fluids. He might be able to follow an individual when they took themselves off to a private spot to relieve themself, but that was still risky and he'd rather not have samples contaminated by the dirt. It was a frustrating obstacle, but he would have to proceed with the information he'd collected so far.

 

He'd intended to just spend an hour or two at the Colony before sneaking out under the broken portion of the fence that surrounded the voluntary quarantine land. But as he stepped away from the cluster of patients, the woman came and her scent flowed into the cave and his nostrils as strongly as if she were in his arms.

 

He watched the woman join the patients that were still able to walk. They formed a line in front of her, and waited patiently for remedies and potions to ease their pain. The new healer, the male, was assessed and discarded as mildly interesting but not a threat.

 

The plain green gown the brown-haired female wore was clearly not her own, he noted, with the sleeves ending two and a half inches above her delicate wrists and the skirt hem only halfway down her calves. He stroked his bottom lip in thought. She seemed unaware of the picture she presented, in a dress too tight and showing too much skin for a grown woman. She moved with precision and practicality, completely lacking seductiveness.

 

And yet he remembered the way her legs had looked last night, with her pale skin exposed in the moonlight, the skirt tossed above her knees invitingly, her bare flesh framed by the crimson cloak. His fingers tightened into fists as he recalled the scent of her, lying in the dirt, smelling of garden soil and herbs, fresh-picked apples, meat and smoke and woman, yes, underneath all those fascinating odors was pure woman vulnerable on her back before him. Once the shock of her appearance by the stream had fallen away, he'd been seized by the urge to shift back into human form. He drew close to her where she'd fallen, and if he'd had an ounce less of self-control, he'd have been human again, licking a hot stripe from the back of her knee, up her inner thigh, and-

 

The hooded man cut into his palms with his fingernails, digging until he bled and refocused on the scene before him.

 

The intriguing spread of the Falling and its stubborn recurrence was why he was there, not some healing woman and the mindless Pull that his kind were subjected to-

 

 _No not that,_ he cut himself off. _It's not the Pull. It's just a scent. A good scent, but all scents fade. And you are not an animal, no matter what shape you take._

_  
_

He moved forward until the bright sunlight warmed his mouth and nose. His eyes were completely masked by the hood and so he directed himself to the line of patients using his other senses. The healers applied ointments and offered advice, quickly and compassionately. The male was generous with the joking flirtation, and had the previously distrustful Peter laughing with him after he told a rather raunchy joke about a bull mistaken for a dairy cow by a blind man.

 

 _Smart_ , he considered. _More than I realized. A boy who grew up in a tavern will trust the honestly ribald fellow over the polite fool he was pretending to be before._

_  
_

The last woman in line for the male healer- John, his name was- smiled shyly beneath her blue cowl, and it was illuminating. In seconds, he understood everything he needed to know about the weary healer from the North, with his lovingly maintained ring and determination to learn more about the disease.

 

The woman ( _Molly_ , his mind insisted _, they called her Molly_ ) worked in a much quieter manner. Her brown eyes remained focused on each patient, and only after she was done smoothing on balm would she inquire after their mother or offer gossip from the village. As she soothed each symptom with the remedies from her basket, her scent changed slightly. Notes of lavender, and peppermint, and aloe found their way into the bouquet of her. It was almost overwhelming for his hypersensitive nose.

 

He shook his head to clear the odors from his nostrils.

 

"Are you alright?" Her voice was light and mellow. Her gently curving smile turned to him now.

 

He nodded and stepped forward.

 

"Mind if I have a sit-down on the grass? My back's aching." Molly dropped onto the ground by her basket without waiting for an answer, tucking the skirt beneath her as best she could manage.

 

He shrugged and knelt.

* * *

"I don't think we've met- have you joined the Colony just in the last month?" Molly asked, shifting in the brown grass. She threaded her hands in the plants idly. It was easy to forget in the changing season, when the sun shone on them, but she felt the coming freeze in the hardness of the soil beneath the grass she sat on.

 

The tall man in the dark cowl nodded again, and Molly frowned. She tried to find a polite way to ask him if the Falling had taken his tongue already.

 

Before she could speak again, the man cleared his throat and a few rough words tumbled out.

 

"Yes. New. 'Pologies." The speech was rounded like a local's accent, but there was a touch of strangeness there, as though he had spent much of his life elsewhere. Seeming to sense Molly's curiosity, the man bent his head forward, covering the full mouth she had briefly spied.

 

The fingers of his white hands were interlaced, and Molly realized they were beautifully untouched by the illness, the skin creamy and the digits elegant.

 

 _What a shame,_ she thought with a pang. They should be plucking a harp or curving around a paint brush like Soo Lin's. But they would likely rot within a year if he already needed to cover his body so completely.

 

She pushed aside the familiar sadness.

 

"What can I do for you, sir? Have you noticed any new red patches, any pus? Have you experienced any convulsions? Have any of your muscles failed?" He shook his hooded head at every inquiry.

 

Molly twisted her mouth in thought. "Well…what can I do to ease your pain then? Do any of your body parts pain you?"

 

He hesitated, and then lifted his right hand, palm up, to her. Molly cradled his hand between hers gently, examining the clean skin and rubbing her thumb over his fingertips.

 

"Can you feel this, in each finger? Some find their blood circulation becomes poor, and you may feel a tingling or a burning sort of pain. Can you feel this?" He nodded as she poked and rubbed each digit in turn. When she finished, she released him only to find her hand caught up in both of his.

 

He raised her fingers to his mouth, and she saw his lips again, set in a crooked smile. He pressed his mouth to her soft palm, and inhaled.

 

"Thank you, Molly. I am well." His voice was clearer now, and deep. There was a musical rhythm to his intonation, and she had the sudden desire to push the cowl hood from his head to know what sort of man this was. "Hands tell a story. So many lines and cuts for a young female. Pale ring of skin around your finger. Your husband, he's been gone four or five years. But you didn't remove your wedding band until the last year. Interesting."

 

He dropped her hand and stood quickly. Molly flushed and looked left at John to see if he had observed the exchange. He was in conversation with his final patient, a blue-hooded woman who was also unknown to her.

 

When Molly looked back to where the tall man had been standing, he was gone.


	3. The Gift

After spending three days at the Colony, Molly set out on the path home to the village in the safe light of morning and a clear sky.

She had carried out her work as efficiently as ever with the assistance of the new healer, and with the inescapable sensation that she was being watched. She felt a shiver of awareness, and goosebumps rose on her arms whenever she crossed the field to fetch a pail of water from the stream. The mornings were growing colder, and she held the empty bucket under her red cloak to keep her hands from growing numb. The woods around the stream grew brighter as the dying leaves fell to the ground and opened up the sky, but she felt a curious darkness growing in the surrounding land.

She told no one of her fears, or of the strange encounter with the tall man in the brown cowl. Was he responsible for the feeling that someone's eyes were touching her whenever she roamed the Colony? She searched for him and his long white hands in the clusters of people around the caves, but she never again saw him. At night in her cot in Grandmother's home, she found herself lingering over the feathery kiss he'd pressed into her palm.

 _Why?_ she wondered. _Why did do it? His lips…untouched by sickness, like his hands. And how did he know about my marriage?_

She briefly thought of David, steady brown-eyed David and his uncomplicated ways, before drifting off to sleep wondering what color eyes the tall man in the cowl possessed.

During the day, she applied remedies and ointments in tandem with John, who quickly befriended the wary residents. Victims of the Falling were reviled by most of the village, but he treated them with respect and without recoiling from their ghastly boils and rotting limbs. He questioned them about their personal habits and their lives before the plague crept into their bodies, searching for an answer. He found no new patterns, but he persisted. Molly learned the stubborn set of the new healer's jaw and the seriousness in his blue eyes behind the disarming smiles. She understood that he would not back down easily from any problem, and knew Grandmother had been right to accept him into the Colony.

It was reassuring as well to have another healthy soul around the isolated community. Grandmother founded the Colony with only the help of her old friend Angelo, a gregarious cook who had lost his wife to the Falling shortly before. Beginning to sicken himself, and unable to face customers in his bakery every day, he left the responsibility for the business and most of the profits in his son's hands. He built a cabin with a large oven on the edge of the Colony, within shouting distance of the older woman's cottage and baked fresh bread for the residents every morning. He thought he was building a small comfortable place to die in, but instead he became one of only four villagers known to have recovered from an early stage of the Falling.

No one knew why.

John was bunking with him now, and the old man thrived on the company. Molly saw them sitting on the stoop of the cabin and passing a flask between them after dinner, most evenings.

Angelo and Grandmother set out the bread and fruit for the patients every morning and afternoon. Sometimes there were eggs and sides of bacon, but the offerings were dependent on donations from the village. Few wanted to waste good food on almost-dead folk. Most residents would climb the hill atop the cave to fetch water from the old well there.

When Molly fretted that they might injure themselves by falling, the night before she was set to leave, Grandmother reassured her it was for the best that they get their own drink.

"It's just as well, dear. My hip, you know. I can't carry it anymore from the stream, and John says the movement is good for them. It keeps the blood flowing through their limbs in a more healthy fashion and slows the rot. Isn't that an exciting thought? He has all sorts of theories, he does." Gran continued packing the basket up with the empty and cleaned bowls.

"I can stay another day or two if you need me," the younger woman offered as she searched through the book shelf for a certain prayer book she wanted to borrow. She didn't put much weight into prayer for the plague, but it brought great comfort to those who Fell. Molly thought again of the man with the beautiful hands, and wondered if he would be dead next month when she returned. She was surprised by the pang of wistfulness the thought gave her.

"They need you in the village," Grandmother replied regretfully. "Stamford is a competent apothecary but he doesn't have your skill with healing. The weather's changing quickly, some are bound to be coming on with the fevers and the flux. The cold is making my bones ache. Winter is on the move, love." Gran tucked a clean medicine pot snugly inside the basket, and pulled out a long wrapped item that had been pushed against the back corner.

She flipped the fabric open, unrolled it, and gasped. "Molly! What is this?"

Molly looked up from the shelf, and giggled at her grandmother's shock. "A gift from Soo Lin. She borrowed my favorite knife a few weeks back, and the tip broke. I told her not to bother, I'd have it fixed, but she insisted on giving me a new one." She pulled a book from the shelf and crossed the room to gently take the thin, gleaming blade from Grandmother's grasp.

The knife was the length of her forearm, but much narrower than Molly's simple old blade that she used to slice herbs from stalks. The cutting edge was razor-sharp,and the knife came to a deadly point. Instead of a dull gray like the tool it replaced, the gift shone from tip to grip.

"My goodness, it's coated in silver. How much this must have cost her!" Grandmother pulled her blue shawl around her tighter and shook her head. "A strange gift for a friend. Seems foolish to waste silver on a knife for cutting twigs."

"That's not silver, is it?" Molly asked. She frowned at the knife as she examined it. "I didn't really look at it before, I guess, though I should have." She thought of her terrified run through the forest and how she'd forgotten about the potential weapon in her own basket until it was almost too late.

"It's real alright. I don't know about that potter. Hexes on pots, silver on a knife. Perhaps she comes from superstitious kin but we're _modern_ folk, aren't we." Grandmother wrapped her arm around Molly and squeezed her tight. "Off to sleep with you, you've a long walk in the morning. Do clean your dinner plate before you go to bed though. Honestly, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

* * *

The piles of orange and pink leaves blanketing the path were thicker than ever as Molly made her way home through the forest. The air had changed since the week before, and there was a barbed edge to the wind now. The distant smell of wood smoke, rich and delicious in her nostrils, told her that the cold was being felt by other souls around the forest. Wishing she'd thought to bring her mittens, she warmed herself by singing and thinking about the cup of steaming tea she'd brew when she got home. With luck, she'd arrive right around lunchtime, and it wouldn't be too early to sneak off to Soo Lin's for whiskeyed tea and a chat about the too-elaborate gift her friend had given her.

Molly was halfway home when she felt the distinct sensation of eyes on her, the same shivering awareness that had haunted her at the Colony.

She stopped, and took a deep breath. She threw back her red hood, scanned the bushes around the path, and listened closely. Without questioning her instincts further, she stuck her hand into the basket and drew out the silver blade.

Molly's wide eyes darted to and fro and her heart raced. She heard nothing for a long moment, and began to think she had imagined the feeling.

Five feet to her right, a twig snapped. And then another.

This time, Molly didn't wait for confirmation. She fled.

* * *

Her basket banged against her side as she ran up the path. She knew she should've tossed it aside but it didn't even occur to her until she was running. The heavy cloak bounced around her shoulders and streamed behind her as her legs carried her over the winding path through the trees. She heard the landing thumps of someone-something- pursuing her, but she didn't dare look back.

Knowing would be even worse than not knowing.

The knife was still gripped tight in her other hand.

 _If I stumble and impale myself on the blade, I will be the biggest fool there ever was,_ she thought, but was too frightened to stop and sheath the knife inside the napkin.

She scanned the forest, hoping for a sign of the village, but she was too far. As her eyes touched the trail curving through the trees, a waft of smoke hit her nose again.

 _Wood smoke_ , she remembered. _Too far from the Colony and the village to be smelling it. If someone's built a fire, they're close._

Caught between the desire for help and the unthinking need to run home, she hesitated.

An enormous grey wolf burst through the brush twenty feet ahead, obscuring the walkway. She hoped for a futile second that he might not notice her, but his massive muzzle swung toward her, and she saw his yellow eyes find her unerringly. His lips curled and she recognized the drooling toothy smile of the wolf.

 _It's not possible,_ Molly thought. She stared in shock.

Another wolf jumped out of the bushes, and then another. They flanked the grey wolf. Both were smaller than the first creature, but still oversized and staring hungrily at her.

Her decision made for her, she crashed through the bushes alongside the path and plunged into the woods, following the smell of the smoke.

As she left the clear path behind her, she heard snarls and more confusingly, pained yelps.

Molly tripped and scrambled across the leafy forest bed, noticing it was vaguely familiar. She'd never strayed so far from the safe passage before. Only once before, she realized as she climbed up a small rocky hill and found the narrow stream on the other side.

_Of course! It always leads back to the water. But where from here?_

She looked side to side. Again in the far off wood, she heard howling. As she turned to identify which direction it was coming in, she spun around to find a wolf standing not more than four feet from her.

Its golden-yellow eyes radiated unearthly intelligence for a beast. As the animal took a cautious stepped forward, Molly realized two facts: that the creature was injured, with a long gash along its left hind leg, and that it was the same one who touched her knee when she fell by the stream only a few days before.

She brandished the silver knife in her fist, and the wolf yipped.

She took a step back, and the reddish-brown wolf padded forward, head bent in a less threatening way.

"You stay right there! I don't want to hurt you!" Molly whispered.

 _Yes brilliant, Molly, I'm sure the big dog will understand you,_ she groaned inwardly.

Oddly though, the wolf stopped. She had the sense, as she had the first night, that it was annoyed.

"My, you are an expressive one, aren't you. But you're not wild like the others. If only you could talk and tell me how to get away from those creatures." She lowered her knife and glanced around. The fear hit her hard, as the strength of the flight-fueling rush began to lessen. "What am I to do?" She chewed on her lip, and tried to hold back tears.

The huge wolf yipped again, and limped past Molly. His thick and fluffy tail swatted her on the arse as it passed by and she jumped away.

Molly stopped herself from shouting at it only just in time.

The wolf looked at her again, and then pointed his white muzzle across the stream. He looked back at Molly and repeated the action. When she still didn't move, the wolf trotted over to her and bit the hem of her cloak. He tugged on the material until Molly tightened her hold on her basket and walked. The wolf pulled her toward a row of stones that neatly bridged the stream. She hopped across the rocks, and came out on the other side not soaked this time.

"Oh you _are_ clever!" Molly exclaimed. "Leading me. Someone's trained you- you're a tame wolf."

The wolf looked at her warily, and climbed up the embankment on the other side of the stream. A steady trickle of blood oozed from his leg as he went. She followed behind. It was madness, she thought, but so far the creature hadn't hurt her, and she suspected that he'd been hurt by his own kind, the wolves who had accosted her.

As Molly hurried up the embankment and followed the wolf through the trees, the scent of wood smoke filled her nose again.

The aroma was so strong she could taste it on her tongue, and it smelled of home and safety.

She jogged behind the animal over another hill, and before they had reached the bottom, a small cottage she'd never seen before appeared between the trees. It was framed by a cluster of sturdy evergreen trees that shielded the house from the elements. Curls of smoke rose from the chimney on the thatched roof. Dark vines grew thick over the cottage, snaking around the walls and covering the windows. She saw a flash of color behind the vines, and realized that instead of shutters like most residences used, this secret place had real glass.

 _And it's colored,_ Molly thought. _How can someone who lives out here afford glass?And to paint it…why would anyone do such a thing?_

The wolf whined at her and his bright yellow eyes found hers again.

"What are we waiting for?" Molly pushed past the animal and streaked across the remaining ground between her and the house. The wolf remained in his place, licking at the cut on his leg as she ran. She pounded on the wooden door several times before she thought to try the knob.

It turned easily and the door opened.

Molly shoved her way inside, and slammed the door behind her. She dropped her basket and collapsed on the floor in a puddle of red fabric. Her entire body shook as the piercing terror left her. Only after the tremors subsided did she realize she still clutched the silver knife in her hand.

She extended her fingers and the weapon clattered to the floor. Molly rubbed at her eyes, and rocked back and forth as she sat on the floor, trying to compose herself.

When her breathing calmed, she focused enough to take in her surroundings. She was in the large main room that seemed to make up most of the cottage. The lamps were unlit, but a small fire blazed in the hearth. A pot bubbled away over the flames. The vine-choked windows provided almost no light. A large mat lay on the floor near the fire, covered in cushions, and a rough chair accompanied the simple table covered with books, located in the far corner. She squinted, trying to read the title on the spine of one tilted in her direction.

It wasn't until she heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening that it occurred to her to wonder who lived in the cottage.

Light flooded the room as a door at the back, to the left of the table, flew open. She'd seen no knob or latch in the dimness.

Molly pushed herself back against the wall, and grabbed hold of the knife once more.

"You may as well stand," a man's deep and crisp voice announced. "Even if I couldn't smell you and the blade, I'd certainly be able to see you in that blood red cloak. Do put the knife away. I've already lost a fair amount of blood, and I'd rather not be poisoned with silver in my own home."


	4. The Blood

From the crest of the rocky hill, a safe distance away, the Wolf waited and watched. The red-hooded young woman flew across the grass in front of the cottage and disappeared through the entryway. The heavy door slammed shut and the grey wolf could almost taste her relief. He still couldn't decide whether he would take the woman or just tear into her. There were so many choices and life was so long and so _dull_. Why not leave some decisions to whimsy? She might be useful, though, since she was of the blood.

The grey wolf stared as the creature who had interfered with his prey. The wolf with the dark brown and red fur cast one long glance back at the hill, and then limped toward the house with an air of indifference. He rounded the corner of the ivy-covered cottage and vanished from sight.

The wolf on the hill curled his lips over his teeth and growled.

_Going to pretend you don't know an old friend? Oh, that's charming. You're still a wonder to play with._

He turned, crossed the stream and sprinted through the trees, until he neared the path where his two companions sat whining over their wounds.

The world blurred and everything _shifted_ , and a moment later a naked man stood before the two bloodied wolves. His golden irises had melted into an unrelentingly dark human gaze that reflected no light. The short hair on his head blackened from furry grey into a shade that matched his eyes and contrasted sharply with his ghostly pale skin. His muzzle dissolved into a sullen pout.

The grey wolf on the left followed suit, and a muscular blond man rose from the ground to tower over his leader. Though he loomed over the dark-haired man, he tipped his head downward in unmistakable submission. Blood trickled from his mouth and from a deep gash in his right bicep.

The remaining wolf whined and yipped at the two men. He attempted to stand but stumbled back onto a bed of dead leaves as his battered leg gave in.

"Useless, both of you," the dark-haired man hissed in a lilting accent. "You might as well not change form, Zhi. I don't carry _useless_ wolves back to the caravan, and three legs will take you farther than one."

"But, Professor, we-" The blond closed his mouth abruptly as the shorter man raised his hand.

"Never mind." His shadowed face broke into an obscene grin, and he laughed. "I changed my mind! I'm _delighted_ two of you couldn't take on one wolf. I've grown so bored with this village and how easily they're dying. My old friend will make the carnival vastly more entertaining."

The Professor's face relaxed into a cheerful smile, and he scanned the forest around the path.

"Now lads, where _did_ I leave my trousers?"

* * *

"Do put the knife away. I've already lost a fair amount of blood, and I'd rather not be poisoned with silver in my own home."

The owner of the deep masculine voice stumbled stepping over the threshold. The door opened wider, and Molly saw the outline of a tall man clad only in a pair of worn linen trousers. His features were invisible with the sunlight pouring in behind him, blinding her. He grasped the doorframe, and then twisted his body to the right to lean on the narrow table next to the entrance. She saw one long hand fumbling around with an object on the surface.

Something about the stoop of his long, lean frame tickled recognition at the back of her mind.

She heard a metallic creak, and shrank farther against the wall, shaking. The man hopped further into the cottage on one leg. He shut the back door, and the room fell into dimness again, with only the dying flames of the hearth providing light.

"Give it a minute. The device takes thirty seconds to prime the pump, and then another twenty to- ah."

As the unknown man spoke, light flared to life in the small cottage. A glowing beam of yellow appeared just above the narrow table, and the golden column raced up the wall, shimmering toward the ceiling. As it moved, the room grew brighter and brighter until everything was thrown into sudden, harsh illumination.

Molly blinked hard, adjusting her eyes to the change, and realized that the source of light was the strange substance moving from what appeared to be glass tubes. The tubes climbed the walls, crossed the ceiling and then returned again on the other side of the cottage. The light inside the tubing was almost smoky, and though it flowed like liquid, it wasn't any substance she could identify.

Molly jumped to standing, her silver knife falling to the floor forgotten. She spun around, amazed.

"Why, it's like the sun. Amazing! Utterly brilliant." She followed the glass network of tubes with her eyes shining, marveling at the intricacy of the work. With the cottage well-lit, she saw everything she had missed before- wooden crates of old books and unfamiliar objects, a thin rug covering much of the floor, the fiddle perched on a low shelf, and the door to the left that lead into a pantry. A half-disassembled clock lay in a box just outside that door, springs and bolts piled on top of it. One patch of wall had a series of numbers scrawled across it in charcoal, but the sums were beyond her ability. The four small windows of the cottage were not clear glass, she saw now, but colored. They were all half-covered with curtains, but designs of some sort had been etched into the glass.

"The effect is short-lived. The gas burns itself out within an hour typically. Flammability is also an issue, but the release valve I added seems to have alleviated the pressure and the explosive effect." The man sounded rather pleased with himself, but his voice was tight with pain.

It was the wince in his tone that finally tore Molly's gaze away from the miraculous lighting. Her head swung toward him and her mouth dropped open ungracefully.

She didn't know what was more extraordinary: the cottage or the man. Molly wondered if she'd escaped from wolves and fallen into something much more dangerous. The room suddenly seemed stiflingly hot.

It probably helped that she hadn't seen a man who wasn't her patient this unclothed since her husband died. And David, with his rounded shoulders and stocky form had never made the blood rush to her cheeks.

The stranger's face was an odd mixture of stern angles, his cheekbones almost too high under eyes tilted like a cat's. His eyes were a vivid blue-green with a ring of yellow around the pupils. The colors shifted even as she gawked at him, the shades deepening when he gazed back at her. He was completely unabashed about his bare chest, sprinkled with reddish brown hair, so much paler than the nearly black curls of his head. His steady breathing was visible in the rise and fall of his abdomen, and she found herself wondering if his pulse had increased at all, despite his injury.

_His injury…_

Molly shook herself from her blatant staring, and her eyes dropped down his body. She lingered on the taut muscles of his belly, visible over the loose waist of his trousers, before finally landing on his lower legs.

A growing stain of red was spreading over the fabric on his left calf. Apparently bored with her silence, the man turned and hobbled to the chair at the table in the corner.

"I'd forgotten how much it hurts, dealing with wolves. The small game around here doesn't provide much opposition." The flickering light from the hearth illuminated his pale hands as he tugged up the trouser leg that was soaked with blood. "My initial deduction was correct- you are quiet unless in the company of those closest to you."

"What?" Startled, the world slipped from her mouth. The strange spell broken, she pressed onward. "This is your home? I've never seen this cottage before and I've been across the stream before. I think. Are we safe from those creatures here?" Molly felt foolish asking, but the monstrous size of the wolves haunted her. Her eyes scanned the floor until she located her knife.

He sighed impatiently. "Leave the blade on the floor. It irritates me. You'll be safe here, I promise you that. As for not noticing the cottage before, it's simple misdirection. I never wanted to be seen before. And we should be safe for now. This is my territory, and we have something of an arrangement. They grew careless in their hunting, but I reminded them." He smirked, and then hissed inward as he prodded his wound. "You might as well stitch this. I heal fast but it'll be faster if it's closed properly."

"Oh! Yes, of course, I can do that." Molly dropped to her knees and opened her basket, glad to have a task to focus on. She drew out the special thin string and tiny needle she kept for healing use. "Wait, how did you know I can do that?" She crossed the cottage and knelt by his bloodied leg. "Is there water I can use to clean it? For that matter, how did this happen?"

"You know how." He gave her a steely-eyed stare that reeked of impatience before nodding toward the pots over the hearth. "The middle container. Have a care to not mix them up. The one on the right is toxic." He paused and tilted his head in thought. "No…the one on the left is. The one on the right is soup."

"Are you joking?" Molly approached the hearth warily.

The corner of his mouth curled up. "Maybe."

She sniffed the three pots, and saw with relief that the middle one contained only clear liquid. The container on the right looked to be chicken broth, while the pot on the left bubbled suspiciously green. Wrapping a piece of her cloak around the handle, Molly lifted the middle pot away from the hearth and set it on the rug. She reached into her basket and extracted two clean bandages. She dipped one into the steaming water and returned to the man's side. Her mind raced with a dozen more questions, but she bit her tongue and forced herself to stay focused.

"You haven't told me your name. Or how you know what I do." She touched his calf and looked up to meet his gaze.

"It's obvious," he said, waving his hand and avoiding her eyes. "Hardly worth explaining. Stitch while I talk," he ordered.

Molly raised her eyebrows at him, but decided to humor the man. The ill were often bossy and unpleasant at first, in their discomfort. She cradled his wounded leg in her arms and gently dabbed at the area around the gash.

"Sherlock."

"Sorry?" Molly asked, while dipping the bandage back into the hot water. She tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned in to continue rubbing the cloth on his leg. She tried not to think about how warm he felt or how close the stranger's body was pressed to hers.

"My name is Sherlock. Unusual name, I know. It means 'fair-haired,' which I was as a baby. It turned dark when I was still a child," he explained before she could comment. "It could be much worse. My older brother is named after the pasture where he was conceived. And I know that you're a healer because I noted the book in the basket when you opened it. The Book of Zacchiah, prayers popular with plague sufferers. You don't suffer from the Falling or any other illness; ergo you're sharing the book with others. You also have old pieces of verbena and nashia flowers wedged into the woven strips of the basket."

"I don't use those for healing!" Molly protested, keeping her eyes on the injury beneath her hands. She'd cleaned out the dirt and debris around the wound, and he didn't seem to be uncomfortable.

It's always nice when patients don't shriek,she thought.

"Clearly. But the verbena and nashia found in this area thrive in patches with thyme, alotia, and foxglove, which _are_ very useful plants for healing. You were harvesting herbs recently and picked up some other flowers along the way." Sherlock bent over, startling her, and plucked out the crushed petal that had gotten snagged in her basket. He placed it into her free hand, his fingertips brushing her palm.

"That's really odd."

His eyes narrowed at her.

"Oh no, I- I meant that in a good way. It's incredible, the way you see all those details. And you know something of healing herbs. That's nice. I suppose that's handy, living out here alone. Looking after yourself…you've only one chair."

He frowned down at her. "And? I only require one."

"Right. I mean, most people have more than one, for visits with company or family, or…friends."

He sneered. "I don't have _friends."_

"Oh…well, stay still. Better yet, tell me how this wonderful lighting works. By the way, my name is Molly." She bent her head over the needle and threaded it carefully. She took his leg in hand, and hummed as she set to work.

* * *

Her scent was everywhere.

From the moment he entered the cottage and saw her huddled on the floor in her red cloak over a faded green dress, it was overwhelming. His resistance was already worn down with his annoying injury, and he had the urge to crawl to her and bury his face in the nape of her neck until the ache in his leg went away.

Her face with its elfin nose and delicate mouth was as clear to him in the dark as it was in the light; he'd ignited the gas tubing for her benefit. It would be an unfortunate hassle to return to the distant swamps to collect more fuel, but that hadn't even occurred to him when she sat on the floor shaking in fear.

She was in denial about the wolves, he saw right away. Her human mind would not let see what she thought was impossible. She focused on the menial task of caring for him and kept pushing away the simple, obvious truth: she left a wolf outside the door, and a man walked inside the house. He should have been pleased; anonymity was the key to living in peace in these lost woods.

But it bothered him that she refused to see him for what he was. Anger rose inside him. All it took was a hooded cowl or a willful desire to ignore the obvious, and she had completely failed to detect his true self.

"I'm a chemist."

She looked up from her needle, her brown eyes wide. Her scarlet hood had fallen back to settle on her shoulders, framing the waves of her long hair. She pushed up her sleeve and dipped the needle in again and tugged. "A chemist? Are you connected to the guild of alchemists?"

"The alchemists are charlatans, money-grubbing frauds. Turning lead into gold, pffft." He rolled his eyes. "I'm a scientist. My knowledge is based on precise study and experimentation, with no goal toward profit. The lighting is a minor experiment with noxious gases from the Crescent Swamp. I was exploring the use of glass and its magnifying properties, and discovered the illumination effect quite by accident. It seemed worthwhile to utilize glass in other capacities." He tilted his head up. "As you can see, the light is already fading."

Molly peered up at the tubes, and smiled. "If they had something like this in the healing wards, they could save so many lives with strong lighting. Grievous mistakes happen in the dark when they operate by torchlight, after battles and raids. It really is so beautiful, what you've created." She dug in the basket again, searching. "Will it be ready for others to try sometime soon, do you think?"

"Others?" He found it interesting how she moved items about inside her basket without being able to see. Her instinctual perception of that which she couldn't see with her eyes was rather strong, despite her denial of what sort of being she was tending to. He shouldn't be surprised though. It had been so long since he encountered a woman who was of the blood that he'd forgotten they were often more clever and intuitive than normal humans.

Comfortable in her healer role, Molly chatted while she used the scissors she'd pulled out to snip the thread. "Yes, others. Your invention, it's useful, and I know you said you're not interested in profit, but if you sold the lighting, you could buy materials and invent more things and- I don't know. How do you survive in the woods alone, with no help from the village?"

Sherlock's eyes captured hers and he let the icy strength of his wolf gaze pin her down. He felt his eyes shift, the yellow ring in the center expanding as his deeper nature asserted itself.

"I _hunt."_

Her eyes dropped and she shivered. The wolf inside stretched and stirred.

_Yes, see me for what I am, Molly._

The woman shook her head. "That's all well and good, but what about things like milk? You've no barn that I can see, no cows. Life is better when we trade and share."

"I have no desire to share, Molly. What's mine is mine. And the village would undoubtedly burn to the ground the first time a drunkard forgets to release the valves on time." He lifted his leg up to inspect her handiwork.

A row of neat stitches closed the gash the other wolf has torn in his calf. The wound wouldn't cause any permanent problem though it might leave an interesting scar, given that it was from another of his species.

She laughed awkwardly. "You'll be wanting to change your clothing then, since we're finished. You've got blood on your trousers, and perhaps you have a shirt you could put on…" Her cheeks turned pink and she looked away.

Sherlock looked down at himself. _Oh right. Humans. Modesty. Waste of time._

"My clothing is upstairs. I'm not much for climbing right now." He shrugged and lounged back on the chair.

Molly frowned and stood, brushing off her skirts. "Upstairs?" She looked around, confused.

He sighed and leaned forward. Silently he pointed toward the ceiling by the front door, to the left of where Molly had collapsed when she entered. A small handle was visible between two of the boards.

"Oh, a trapdoor! That's rather cunning. Yes, you won't be climbing tonight. Healer's orders. You'll um, you'll have to stay like…that." She shrugged and chewed on her bottom lip. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed, and it occurred to Sherlock for the first time that she would be considered pretty by other humans, even those who couldn't distinguish her scent and didn't know she smelled like apples and rosemary and the forest. That there was something wild under her prim old gown and precise healer's methods.

He wondered anew what would happen if he pulled her to him, and sucked at her neck until she wriggled against him and begged him to mount-

 _NO_ , his mind reprimanded him. _Human. Better than human. Not animal. Remember the work. Get rid of her._

He jumped to his feet, ignoring the jolt of pain that ran down his leg.

"Well, I've got a chicken saved in the larder that will do nicely as payment for service. I'll just grab that and walk you to the edge of the village. Leg's all set proper, and the wolves won't have lingered, so there should be no trouble at all." He summoned a smile that he hoped looked sincere and extended a hand for her to shake.

Startled by the sudden shift, she slowly lifted her arm to clasp his hand in return. As their palms pressed together, Molly furrowed her brow and her eyes flew from his long fingers to his face.

He tried to decipher the feelings behind the expression and failed. The twitches of humans' faces had always been just beyond his deduction skills.

She dropped the basket in her other hand to the floor.

"Oh my god. It's _you."_

A knot formed in his stomach, and he felt a confusing mixture of hope and fear. "Yes, I'm the person you've been looking at for the last hour. Stunning observation." His voice was cool and mocking.

The healer was more panicked than he'd seen yet. "No, it's you- from the Colony! You're the man, the one who- you kissed me. My hand." A vivid red crept onto her cheeks. "Why did you do that? And why lie? You're not sick, you can't be. I'd know! That is a terrible thing to make people think." She shook her hand free of his grasp, and snatched her basket back from the floor.

He saw no point in denying it. "Because I needed free access to the Colony and its patients to acquire samples for testing. I'm studying the Falling and I need more data. It's quite simple really. I told you. I'm a scientist."

Her eyes blazed with anger that even he couldn't miss, and her scent was sharp with it. "That doesn't explain why you would, why you would kiss my palm like that. It's not- polite." She hesitated and took a step back toward him. "It's intimate," she said quietly, eyes cast downward.

"Is it?" He shrugged, while remembering the softness and warmth of her hand beneath his lips.

"Did it occur to you to ask?"

"To kiss you?" Now there was a thought. Dominant wolves didn't, but humans? He should have considered it. He'd been alone in the woods for too long. Another nuance of humanity he'd forgotten. He could ask…

"For access to the Colony. We need all the help we can get. Half the village wants to forget the Falling exists, and the other half has just given up hope." Her eyes sparkled with tears but she blinked them away stubbornly. "Do you know about the disease? More than what we know?"

His brain raced with possibilities. "If you provide me with entry to the Colony and as many samples as I require, along with your own knowledge of the illness, I'll share my information and findings with you. I won't guarantee any value to the results, but I am interested in solving the mystery of this disease."

"Then yes. Yes, that's easy, you can have anything you want from the Colony."

"Even limbs?" His left eyebrow rose in challenge.

"Limbs?" Molly cringed.

"Parts that have rotted off, not extremities that they're still using. Obviously. For examination before they're disposed of."

Her wince lessened. "I guess that makes sense. Make a list of what you'll need and I'll work on getting it for you."

"I'm coming with you. I'll get my own samples. Can't have you contaminating anything in your lack of experience with my methods." Ignoring the offended stiffness in Molly's shoulders, Sherlock limped over to the narrow table. He opened the drawer and drew out a nub of pencil lead and a piece of coarse paper. "A list is a good start though. Must give the matter some thought."

 _Progress, progress finally_ , he gloried as his hand flew over the paper, jotting down every possible item he might find useful to scrape or study. It would be the first true test of the glass eye mechanism if he secured the tissues and fluids he needed. His mind leapt from idea to idea, and the cottage faded from awareness while he paced in mad circles.

After an unknown amount of time, he realized that he wasn't alone in the room and that he was still speaking aloud. He looked for his clock to see how much time had passed, and then remembered he'd gutted the thing last week for another project. The last of the gas lights were fading. Molly cleared her throat while he was halfway through hammering out a theory about the sloughing of minute tissues in body wastes.

"That's all very good, but you never answered the other question." She looked sheepish but determined. "Why did you kiss my hand?"

"Oh that," Sherlock replied, irritated. "Obvious. I kissed you because I wanted to taste you." He rambled on as though he'd never been interrupted, restructuring his theory until it suited the meager evidence at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name Mycroft actually means 'watery pasture' or 'pasture by the waters.' I thought Sherlock would probably have fun with that.
> 
> Next chapter: visiting town to see what Soo-Lin is up to, and Sherlock shares with Molly a story from the past. For those wondering, the meaning of the phrase 'of the blood' will become much clearer, as well.


	5. The Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for chapter 5: discussion of death of a child
> 
> Also: Lexie has created cover art for this fic, and I love it. Check it out at http://artbylexie.tumblr.com/post/33160605248/if-you-arent-reading-petratodds-frankly-amazing

The genial older man strolled into town, winking at the widows who gathered at the well to gossip during the lazy afternoon hours. He was a plain-faced fellow- white-haired, rosy-cheeked, and dressed in a silken striped waistcoat. The garment's narrow bands of clashing teal, yellow and crimson caught every eye as he passed. The cheerful stranger tipped his head in greeting at the circle of younglings throwing a ball between them in the village square. A stack of scrolls were tucked beneath his arm and a hammer was looped through a knotted bit of rope on his belt.

Above the road, the raven-haired young woman watched silently from her small room atop the pottery. She watered the bouquet of wildflowers in the clay vase on the ledge, her eyes tracking his passage through the uneven pathways.

The stranger crossed the cobblestones and paused in his casual saunter. His head swung up, and he unerringly met her gaze. Behind fashionable gold-rimmed spectacles (strictly for decoration, she saw), his powder-blue eyes glinted and he grinned crookedly.

Their eyes bore into one another for a moment. The woman in the window remained perfectly still, hands locked around the vase. The cold autumn breeze blew strands of hair across her face, but her expressionless face stayed frozen even as his eyes paled and golden flecks bled into his blue irises.

The children's ball flew past the man's face and he jumped back, startled. The scrolls slid from his grasp, and he dropped to his knees to scoop up the papers before they were ruined on the damp ground. When he looked up at the window, the woman had vanished and the shutters were closed tight.

The white-haired man in the striped waistcoat glanced around to see if the exchange had been noted, but the villagers scurried by unconcerned. He removed one scroll from the pile and continued in the direction he'd been headed before the woman had been seen.

A large sign swung over the door of the broad building he approached, reading "Merry Men Inn." A short blond man with a neat mustache and chin whiskers swept the front porch, singing and chatting with every soul that passed by. He smiled sunnily as the stranger approached.

"Well, hello! Come for a stay, have you? Busy times, you're lucky if we've got a room left. Gary, got another coming!" he called through the doorway.

"Haven't got a room unless we give him ours," a large man grumbled from a table inside the inn's common room. He was picking through what appeared to be a pile of scribbled receipts.

"Oh I won't be needing a room," the white-haired man interrupted, "Though it looks like you've a fine establishment." He unrolled the scroll and displayed it with a flourish. "The name's Jefferson Hope. I was wondering if I might post this on your wall with the other bills. There's a free game for you and your lad if you lend us a hand with our advertisement."

"Free?" Gary raised his head from the receipts, scratched his beard, and joined the two men on the porch. "What's he on about, Billy?"

The shorter man smiled and squeezed his husband's arm. "A festival of sorts. It's coming to town. Oh, it's been ages since we had a carnival and it's been so dull and sad with the Falling. Post it where you like, Mister Hope, and come on in for an ale."

Jefferson Hope's grin widened. "I'd be happy to join you and tell you all about our amusements as soon as I post these around town. An advance man's work can never be too thorough." He winked, and clasped each innkeeper's hand in turn. The men waved farewell, and the stranger returned to his stroll along the cobblestones with scrolls in tow.

Billy set his broom aside and uncurled the paper again. His eyes lit up as he skimmed the list of attractions. "Oh, a strongman contest, you should enter that. Acrobats 'featuring the legendary Tree Spider,' oooh that sounds exciting…fierce creatures, games, a one-man band, fire-breathers, and the 'hypnotic mastery of the one, the only Professor Moriarty.' What do you think that bit's about?" Billy scrunched up his nose.

Gary eyed the poster and shrugged. "It's all bollocks, for the show. Still, it'll be good for business. Post it with the others."

The younger man nodded, still reading the scroll. He pointed to the elaborate script above the word 'festival.' "What's this? Odd. Sort of foreign."

His husband craned his neck for a look over his shoulder, and then headed back to the table. "Dunno, love. You'd better get dinner going."

"Are we supposed to know what that word mean?" Billy pondered as he tugged a tack from the wall and used it to hang the new scroll. "Huh. _Lupercalia._ "

* * *

Soo Lin hovered around corners, watching the stranger who called himself Hope hang the notices around the village while chatting up the locals. The ordinariness of his face was at odds with the extravagant clothing and the gold shimmer in his gaze. That yellow animal shine she'd seen was tucked away now, and only his serene sky blue eyes greeted the villagers.

The way in which he greeted the widows around the well was cheeky in his too-familiar manner, but it was expected and easily ignored when encased in a salesman's patter. And that is what it was, beneath his talk of fire masters and tightrope walkers coming to town. Festivals came to play every other year or so, the villagers handed over their coin eagerly, and the most common-faced of men were seen as exotic when they came from far away dressed in jewel-toned silks.

The advance man's hands moved excitedly as he gestured and described the sultry dancers and muscular animal tamers.

 _Lupercalia_ , Soo Lin thought with disgust. _Same old tricks._

To outside observers, the shy potter was standing quietly and watching passers-by, but inside she shook with anger, and cursed the timing of the traveling show. The scent of strangeness had hung in the air for weeks, and driven her to arm her only friend Molly. She had hoped that her misgivings were nothing more than paranoia. When she deliberately broke the borrowed blade and replaced it with her own weapon, she'd prayed that the silver knife would be nothing more than a pretty tool with an unusually sharp edge.

Now, the pale man had come to town, a mild harbinger of something much darker.

And Molly still hadn't returned from the Colony, on the other side of the forest.

Jefferson Hope laughed, his dry voice cutting through the widows' noise, and the air blurred around his hands. Even Soo Lin, as old as she was, wasn't immune to the effect and she winced. His presence seemed to dim, and there was something… _something_ …about his hands, and the well, and his pocket…but the women gathered tight around him and Hope was shielded from Soo Lin's sight.

She shook her head and breathed deeply. She'd been isolated for too long, since her brother disappeared into the woods. She should have been exercising more, to stay keen and aware, but she'd grown comfortable in the insular village.

Her complacency might have cost her dearly.

A firm statement would now have to be made.

Soo Lin turned and rushed back to her shop. She hung the 'Come back tomorrow!' sign out front, flipped the shutters closed and barred them securely. She pulled the apron over her head and draped it over the stool; it would need cleaning, as it was thick with clay dust and damp from the vase water. She set a pan of water to heat on the small fire burner she kept in the back of the shop, and brewed a weak tea. The potter washed her hands and face, and shook her hands dry before sitting down on a chair by the door to wait.

She sat calmly for not more than five minutes when there a knock on her door.

* * *

"Kind of you to make me a cuppa, Miss Yao. Might I add, you're as beautiful as they all said you would be."

Soo Lin poured the tea precisely into the tiny cups she preferred. She didn't offer milk or lemon. When Jefferson Hope brought the cup to his lips, he looked up to find her nearly-black eyes staring into his with a steel he hadn't sensed before, when she hid from him on the road.

A sliver of uneasiness formed in his gut.

"Your brother sends his regards. He'd hoped to come along with me and visit you himself, but he took injury and well, he's resting up." Hope sipped the tea, and grinned. "You'll see him…real soon, I expect."

"You're rather young, aren't you." Soo Lin's expression remained peaceful.

His eyebrows rose. "Pardon, miss? It pains me to admit, I was fifty-seven at my last birth-day. Hardly a youngster."

"Not by human standards, no." Soo Lin's lovely face turned in a gentle smile. "But you're not human anymore, are you. You've only been a wolf for less than two years, I would guess. You still smell almost human. They don't tell you very much, yes? When you're new to his pack."

Hope's lips thinned and he tilted his head back. "I know enough. I've risen fast. Wolves, they're strong, but they're not very clever. They need brains like I've got."

Soo Lin sniffed the air, and the curve of her mouth turned wry. "It doesn't stop aging and disease, you know. It only slows it down- so slow that wolves think they'll live forever sometimes. But it's not true. They lied to you. You think you're going to live because you let them infect you."

The cup in Hope's grip clattered onto his saucer. He stared into the woman's eyes, and a faint fog touched at his mind. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"The weakness…it's in the artery that feeds your brain. The walls are close to rupturing, and when it pops, you'll bleed inside. No blood to the brain, death soon after." Soo Lin breathed, and set her tea aside. As she spoke, her gaze captured his and he suddenly felt the room was spinning, spinning wildly like the taranga dancer in the carnival. "It was better when you were simply of the blood, before they changed you. You were stronger than other humans, and smarter, and your instincts were sure. You would have died within a year, yes, never knowing you were born with the potential to become something more, but you would've died human and free. Not a slave to a monster and his cause."

Hope staggered to his feet, his fists bunched at his temples. His spectacles fell to the floor. "What are you doing…you're just a girl."

"You know my brother Zhi Zhu, Mister Hope. It shouldn't be a surprise to one of your great intellect," Soo Lin chided him softly. She stood, smoothed out her gown, and reached to tilt his chin up, holding his gaze again. The previously midnight color of her eyes was lighter, and a ring of gold burned around her pupils. Tears spilled from his bulging blue eyes and he began to shake.

"You understand so little of what we are. It's not your fault you were misled. The man you call Professor, and his truest followers like my brother, will say anything to bring over more of our kind. But you'll never really _be_ one of them, never be as powerful as them because you are only _of_ the blood." Her strong fingers cupped his cheek, forcing him to not look away.

"The professor, and his repulsive lieutenant Moran, and my brother and I _are_ the blood. We were born into wolf and we will die wolf." Her eyes blazed now, bright coppery coins that hurt to look upon. The whole world was inside her, and he was trapped in the jagged whirlwind of her mind. A stabbing pain thrust into the place on the right side of his head that ached more often than he liked to think about.

Hope cringed and fell to his knees, his chin still caught in her grasp while she continued to intone evenly. "And you will not hurt this village. They welcomed me, and they are no harm to wolfkind. Heed me, Jefferson Hope. I may choose to not run or mate with pack, but I will protect my territory. This is my home." She shoved the shaking man away from her, and he sprawled on the floor, weeping.

She threw open the door, and kicked his spectacles onto the dusty stoop.

"Be gone. If you return for this _Lupercalia_ in seven days, your weakness will end you there and then; I will make sure of it. If you wish to enjoy the ten or so additional years your wolf life has blessed you with, then I bid you, sir: _run."_

On the last word, Soo Lin released her hold on his mind and Hope's sanity returned in a crushing stream. He crawled toward the door, and dragged himself to standing by the doorjamb. He ignored the useless spectacles in the dirt, and cast one last furious glare at the potter.

"You're a liar! No one leaves the pack, traitor. They'll come for you, and there won't be any saying no. A female like you is always _useful."_ He stumbled onto the cobblestones and ran, ignoring the odd looks from the merchants in the lane.

Soo Lin slammed the door shut, and leaned against it on the other side before sliding to the floor in an exhausted heap. She felt her eyes bleed back to their normal human shade. She threw her face into her hands, and a sob escaped her throat.

_Oh, Zhi Zhu. It's a lost cause. Why can't you see that?_

Too many of their kind had been killed over the centuries. A madman had lured her brother away from her side not long after they moved to the village, and she'd been dreading this ever since.

She remembered a little boy bouncing from tree to tree, almost flying in his light-footed leaping and rolling. Xu Guan was the name he was born with, named after their grandfather, but she'd nicknamed him Zhi Zhu, the Spider in the old tongue of the wolves, and the name had stuck. Even though he'd grown taller and wider, he'd never lost the gift of agility that was his regardless of form.

Hope, barely more than human, had been easy to intimidate. For a terrifying second, she thought she'd lost the ability to fog the mind, from not using the skill, but the muscle flexed and the power poured out of her after only a few tugs.

Driving away a newborn wolf was simple. Her brother, born in the blood like herself, but older and stronger, was another problem altogether.

Professor Moriarty, Zhi Zhu and a pack of loyal killers were roaming the woods around her village, and her best friend was out there somewhere.

Soo Lin didn't have any idea how to handle them, other than running. But she was so tired of running, and that wouldn't help Molly. What on earth was she to do?

* * *

For the next hour, Sherlock muttered his forming theories, thinking aloud and running his hands through his curls in frustration every so often when he'd hit a mental block. The hesitation would never last more than a minute, and he'd burst through with another rush of speculation and observation. He limped around the tight space of the cottage, pulling books off shelves, waving his hands and jotting down fresh ideas to test and develop.

After a few minutes of bewildered staring, Molly edged away from him and settled herself down on the mat in front of the hearth. It seemed best to get out of his way and let the brilliant hermit sink into his thoughts. She added a log to the fire when it grew low, suspecting he wouldn't even notice while he pawed at a bookcase. The cottage grew brighter for a few minutes before resuming the soft glowing light with a gentle warmth. She felt herself relax, and realized with a start that she was actually rather comfortable in the bizarre environment.

 _Not sure what that says about me,_ Molly thought and almost giggled out loud. Sherlock was the most unusual man she'd ever met in her life, but she wasn't frightened of him at all.

He stopped every so often to ask her a pointed question about her treatment of the Falling patients, but then he would pivot in another direction and she sensed he didn't see her at all anymore the second she responded.

 _What sort of genius is this?_ she wondered. She tried to follow his train of thought, but he had begun to ramble about portions of tissue that would be invisible to human eyes and she was utterly lost. And then there was the other thing…

_He said he wanted to taste me._

Molly knew people assumed she was innocent and not a passionate soul, because she liked to quietly contemplate matters before acting, and she didn't engage in bawdy humor around others. There was however no mistaking the simple carnality of his statement. He brushed off the comment and continued theorizing, but she could barely focus on anything he said, once he put that image in her mind.

His lips on her palm…they'd been soft and warm, unusually full for a man's mouth. Her fingers curled over her palm reflexively now, sitting by the fire and watching him pace around the room shirtless. His movement was unselfconscious and elegant, even in his injured state. The lean muscles of his chest and arms caught the light, and Molly wondered what he would do if she traced their contours with her fingertips.

She shook herself out of the startling thought, and the motion caught Sherlock's eye. He swung around toward her, and frowned.

"Oh right. You're here."

"Yes, I am. I'm…not sure what I should do, to be honest. Do you think the wolves have gone for good?"

He gave her a scornful look. "For good, no, but they're off my land. You're fine here. I'll go with you to the Colony tomorrow, you'll be safe. My leg should be mostly healed by then."

"Mostly healed?" Her eyes dropped to his bandaged calf. It was true he was limping only a little. "If we're going tomorrow, what about tonight? And I'm hungry, and I think I need to go home and eat. It doesn't look like you have much food here…" Her wide-eyed gaze landed on the green fluid bubbling away in the left pot over the hearth.

"I'll get us a pair of rabbits for roasting. There are far too many of them in this area of the forest. Will that suffice?"

"Yes, I like rabbit. And then-"

"And then you'll stay here for the night. I am still wounded, going as far as the Village would be tiring and annoying. We leave for the Colony and Grandmother's house first thing in the morning."

"Where will I sleep?"

He shrugged and collapsed gracefully onto the cottage's one chair. "My bed, of course."

"Oh. Um." Molly's face grew hot, and the words almost stuck in her throat. "You mean this?" She tilted her head toward the mat beneath her.

"No, it's up in the loft."

Molly stared. "So you want me to sleep…" The image of his body spooned behind hers flashed through her mind.

He frowned and his brow wrinkled. "Well, I wouldn't be _in_ the bed. Just you. I'm not much for climbing ladders today, as we've already noted. If I need rest, I'll use the mat but I don't sleep when I'm working. Wastes time."

She blushed and stammered. "Of course, I don't know what I was thinking. Of course." Her mind raced trying to come up with an excuse to blurt out, and she cursed herself for her wild flight of fancy.

_Thinking about bedding strange men. What has the forest done to you, Molly Hooper?_

"That's settled then. It'll be dark soon, I'll hunt now."

Her healer role rose to the surface to protest. "I would rather you didn't run about, Sherlock, you may pull a stitch."

He huffed impatiently. "It's already closed. See?" He yanked up his trouser leg and tugged down the bandage to display the gash.

Though he'd be hurt only a few hours before, the wound had closed as though it occurred more than a day ago.

"That's not possible." Molly jumped up and crossed the room to kneel by his leg. She rubbed her thumb lightly over the shiny red line of the healing cut. She bit her lip and smiled. "That's incredible!"

She looked up into his eyes and beamed, and felt her breath stolen by the fierce hunger in his gaze, and the bright flecks of gold bleeding through the sea-colored irises of his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock hopped off the chair so abruptly she spilled backward onto her elbows and bum.

"Oh!" she cried out, and then scampered back. Instead of screaming like he expected, she fell silent, her brown eyes huge and thoughtful. She opened her mouth and then closed it without speaking.

His normally systematic brain shut down and Sherlock found he couldn't think of a single rational thing to utter. Instead he adjusted his trousers, retying the string at the waist, and opened the back door. He sniffed the air, and when he glanced back at Molly, his eyes were a cool, human blue-green.

"I'll fetch dinner. Decide how you want it prepared while I'm gone, it doesn't matter to me. The outhouse is back here." He pointed out the door toward it. "Don't be afraid. The other wolves are gone."

Molly nodded mutely, and fiddled with the cloak under her fingers. The color in her cheeks was fading, but he saw the subtle vibrations of her body, the tension of her stance. He had the urge to nuzzle close to her neck and measure precisely with his nose how her scent changed in that moment.

Instead he slammed the door shut behind him and hopped the off the step. With a pull on the string, his trousers fell to the ground and he kicked them aside. Before he'd gotten ten paces away from the cottage, the air around Sherlock blurred and his wolf walked. He didn't even feel it when the bandage fell away and the stitches disintegrated. He stretched his legs happily and took off running through the trees.

As he scented the air for rabbits and leapt over the stream, Sherlock's lupine brain wondered distantly if Molly had noticed when he said, The _other_ wolves are gone.

 _Never mind that_ , his animal half nagged him, with a primal pull he couldn't ignore. _Bring her food._

* * *

He was gone less than an hour. The afternoon light faded and the temperature cooled. Molly added another log to the fire. She didn't think he'd mind since there was a substantial pile of firewood out back near the outhouse. There was also a storage shed, but she didn't think it would be polite to poke around in there. The sky darkened and she didn't go outside again. She ran her fingers over the miraculous glass tubing that crisscrossed the cottage walls and inspected the cunning mechanism on the lamp that ignited it. She knelt on the floor of the cottage and wandered through his bookshelves, marveling at the variety of tomes in languages she was entirely unfamiliar with.

Sherlock strode through the door (barely a hitch in his gait now, she noticed), with one hand holding up his unlaced trousers and the other arm outstretched proudly to present two dead rabbits.

Slightly out of breath, he smiled and looked at her expectantly.

"Oh, lovely!" Molly untied the strings at her neck and laid her cloak neatly on the mat. She pushed her sleeves up and took one rabbit in each hand. The animals' throats were bloody and looked as though they had been crushed. She winced, but her practical side took the forefront. "I can prepare them if you've a knife. You said my knife was…it might make you ill?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "So you _did_ hear that. Yes, I'm allergic to silver. Even smelling it in your cloak pocket is irritating, but I can stand it. You may as well keep it close when you're in the woods."

He ducked into the pantry. Molly leaned over and peeked inside the narrow room while he rummaged through a drawer. The long room was full of dusty shelves and cabinets with broken objects piled on top.

"Got it! Roasting it on the spit should do nicely. Pepper? I think I have some. And you've some rosemary in that basket, I smell."

"I can skin them. I'd like to help. Not that I'm much for skinning…" Her stomach gurgled and she crossed her arms over her belly. She was starving, but she hadn't been able to find even a crust of bread lying around the cottage. She retrieved the tiny bowl of rosemary from her basket.

He snatched the rabbits away from her grip, along with the herbs, and headed back outside. He efficiently skinned the animals and skewered and seasoned them. Instead of pulling the pots off the hearth spit, he swapped the iron skewers out. After peering inside the containers, he set the pots with the broth and the green experiment on stones outside to cool and brought the one containing water back inside.

"I know I've got tea here somewhere." He flipped a box open. "HA! A little dried out. But still." He poured the leaves into a cheesecloth, and poured the steaming water through the cloth. The rough brew darkened quickly. He strained the liquid again, and then tipped it into a chipped cup for Molly.

As he sipped his own drink, a thoughtful look came over his face.

"What is it?" Molly asked between sips of the stale-tasting tea.

"Just remembering something. Rather good we didn't give that chicken broth a go. They were both toxic, now that I think about it."

* * *

Night fell while the food cooked and Sherlock quizzed her more about the Colony and its residents. One eyebrow rose but he made no comment when she mentioned the new healer John and his research into the source of the Falling.

Sherlock ceded the table and chair to Molly while she ate. He plunked himself down on the floor with a chunk of roasted rabbit, but barely picked at it. He rubbed at his calf (only a dark pink line marking the wound now) and plucked the strings of his violin ("It's not a bloody _fiddle_ ," he'd corrected her when she asked about it). He played no music, merely stroked the strings while gazing into the fire.

He forced his eyes away from her while she devoured the meal.

Noticing his refusal to look at her, Molly wiped her mouth in embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'm just so hungry." She dug in her pocket for a handkerchief, wiping anyway any trace of juice around her lips.

The truth was, watching her eat the meat he brought her made him so satisfied and elated, he couldn't bear to look at her. He closed his eyes, trying to hold off the shifting, the tell-tale sign of golden irises that always popped up first. He'd been alone for so many years in the forest, he was unused to hiding his second self.

 _Why bother?_ He wondered. _Let her see. Let her run. Run home in your red cloak and hood and forget you ever went this deep into the wood._

But the mystery had yet to be solved and oh, there was a dire lack of good puzzles to solve in the forest. He'd run away from civilization because the extreme stimulation of that much data nearly drove him mad, drove him to drink and be reckless. Keeping away from humans was safer for everyone.

But the joy of the hunt, the access to evidence she brought him, it was intriguing. And then there was her scent.

He wanted to believe it was the simple biological Pull of his kind, to identify the ones of the blood and bring them over to wolfkind. It was tied up in blood and sex and recognition, and personal opinion didn't matter when it came to biological drives.

But the terrible truth was, he liked her. She wasn't nearly as annoying as he remembered most people being.

However, there was an arrangement with the enemy, and it kept everyone alive. He had to drive her off as soon as the mystery was solved.

"Copper for your thoughts?"

"A what?" His fingers came to rest on the neck of his violin.

"A copper for…it's an expression. I mean, you seemed deep in thought. Were you thinking about the Falling, and tomorrow?" Molly nibbled at a leg, and looked unreasonably excited to find another one on her plate.

"I was remembering." He watched as she licked her lips and wiped a tiny bit away from the corner of her mouth.

"Remembering what?"

The curtain to his right caught his eye. A sliver of colored window glass was visible in between the short drapes. The shape of a grey wolf's paw was outlined in black.

"A story."

"I like stories. Never get enough new one in the Village. Sometimes I make them up, but they're not very good." She laughed a little with the admission, and sipped her tea.

"This story is very old. It's about why there are so few wolves on this island," he said. "No good people in this story and there is no happy ending."

"Life doesn't have a happy ending," she said softly.

He picked up his bow and bounced the tip against his lips. The firelight filled his vision and his memories spiraled back. "Very well then."

* * *

"A very long time ago, beyond the mountains of the West, in a land thick with trees, there was a valley, and a kingdom ruled by a warrior prince named Llewellyn. He was rich and intelligent, and he ruled with a kind hand. He was a great hunter, and he often traveled the forests with hounds for companions. He was a kind master and they served their Prince loyally.

Among the animals gathered by Llewellyn was a wolf, tamed and cunning. It was said to be a gift from a friend and adviser of his. He loved the wolf above all the other pets, granting it the freedom to roam freely around his land and castle, without fear of being harmed. He named it Huw. The people learned to not fear the gentled wild creature, and stories spread throughout the kingdom of the friendship between man and wolf, beast and human.

The castle was filled with happiness and joy for many years. None more so than when the Prince's young wife presented him with a son and heir. When Prince Llewellyn would go a long hunt now, he would leave Huw behind to guard the child from anyone who wished to do the royal family harm. He trusted no one as much as he trusted the powerful animal.

And so it happened that the Prince arrived home earlier than planned from the hunt when snow fell. Llewellyn climbed the stairs of the castle in the valley, and entered his child's room, hoping to hold the boy before he fell asleep.

In the room, he found nothing but horror and the end of his world.

The cradle of the princeling was overturned, and only blood filled the child's blankets. Huw stood over the shattered cradle, his muzzle soaked in redness, his great teeth snapping in rage. The child's still form was visible under the broken pieces of his bed. His loyal, intelligent wolf had shown his true self: monstrous and deadly, nothing more than the beast most people believed wolves to be.

The Prince rushed at the wolf, and thrust his broadsword through the murderer's heart. The wolf did not fight back, merely stood there and let the man kill him rather than raise a paw to his ruler. Huw fell to the ground. As the Prince stood over the cradle and the wolf, weeping for his loss and betrayal, he felt the breath of something fierce and horrible.

He turned to find a second wolf lunging for his throat. Llewellyn raised his sword a second time, and his aim was just as true. The mad creature, grey like the smoke of Hell itself, swiped his lethal claws at the Prince, but the legendary sword of the Prince found the wolf's heart. It fell to the ground by the first wolf.

As the animal lay there, the Prince realized that the grey wolf's leg was bitten badly and that his mouth was bloodier than Huw's. In that instant, the truth became painfully clear to him.

His trusted wolf had tried to save the boy from the intruder, failed, and had been slaughtered by _him_ instead.

Llewellyn fell to his knees in his grief. Overcome with remorse for the murder of his friend Huw, he ordered his burial. His men, however, could not be bothered to distinguish between the animals, and so they buried them together in the woods.

And though he knew Huw was not responsible for the child's death, the Prince conceived a loathing for the wild wolves of the forests. His _pet_ was unique- the rest were nothing but base, evil creatures. His hunters rode forth and slew every wolf they could find. Criminals would receive a pardon if they brought in enough wolf tongues. Years passed, and his wife died birthing a second, stillborn child, and his bitterness grew. Towns were then required to provide a tribute of 300 wolf pelts a year to the crown. And less than a decade after the princeling's murder, the wolves were nearly extinct.

Though there was hope for a peaceful shared future once upon a time in the forests, the deeds of one wolf were all that were needed to reveal hatred and mistrust."

* * *

"I told you it wasn't a happy story." Sherlock shrugged, and settled his hand around the waist of the instrument. His thumb stroked the slippery auburn wood.

When he heard no reply after a long moment, he looked up.

Tears streamed down Molly's face. Her plate was long forgotten and pushed aside.

A line of confusion appeared between his eyes. "Why are you crying?"

"But it's so awful. The baby…and the wolves, all the wolves. He killed his friend. That's just…awful."

"I don't need…It's just a story. It doesn't matter. Why should you weep for a story some bard probably made up when he was drunk?" He laced his comments with scorn that he didn't quite feel. He was rather tired, now that he thought about it. He wondered why that was.

"You tell it beautifully. I didn't think you'd care for impractical things, with all your science and cleverness, but you have a gift for words. Are you sure you haven't been chatting up people out here all along?" She laughed awkwardly, wiping away the tears.

"No, I told you, I don't have friends."

"No, I, I was just joking." She sighed. "It's getting late. Perhaps I should retire for the evening. Big day tomorrow for us."

He set aside the violin and stood up, holding onto the waist of his trousers. He kept forgetting to retie them. Human modesty really was a pain in the arse, he thought.

Molly scanned the ceiling until she found the trapdoor he'd pointed out earlier. "Can you pull that down? Out of my reach."

Sherlock pulled on the latch until the door flew open, and a folding ladder spilled out. Molly jumped back from it.

"That's quite modern, the way it unfolds. Brilliant. Now _this_ you could sell without worrying about burning down people's houses." She grinned, and the corner of his mouth crept upward against his will.

Molly climbed up the ladder. Her head reached the loft, and he heard her squeak. "Oh this is…interesting."

"I'm sure it is," he replied impatiently. "Up you go. Lock the door behind you- there's a bar you can slide across the door. Goodnight." Before she could respond, he pushed the ladder back up into its neat, folded position and it slid up to the ceiling.

The ceiling panel went up, and it closed smoothly. He heard the scraping of the board sliding into place.

"Sherlock?" Her voice called distantly through the boards.

"Yes, Molly?"

"Maybe the point of that story isn't that one bad deed shows everyone's bad side, but that we should value our friends, and appreciate it when they try to save you. Or do save you," her quiet voice finished.

"Sentiment. Reality is what it is." He was beginning to feel foolish speaking to the ceiling and the fabric of his trousers was irritating the almost-healed skin of his leg.

"I know, but…Sherlock?"

He scratched his belly, and let go of his trousers' waistband. They fell to the floor and he tossed them onto the chair. "What is it now?"

Through the floorboards of the loft, it sounded almost like a whisper.

"Thank you for saving me from- the others."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Sherlock tells is based in part on the Welsh myth of the dog Gelert, who belonged to Llywelyn the Great.


	6. The Glass

Molly awoke face to face with a grinning naked skull.

She froze, every hair on her body standing on end, her arms and legs covered instantly in gooseflesh. She'd been dreaming of running in the forest, of cloudy skies, and the slow drag of fingernails down her back. She blinked, hoping to shake the sleep from her eyes and the fleshless face from her sight.

The skull remained.

Molly sat bolt upright in bed, the furs pooling around her waist. The eyeless sockets followed her as she hopped off the thick mattress on the floor and jumped to standing. In her hurry, she forgot to hunch over and the top of her head bumped the low, sloped ceiling of his triangular bedroom loft.

"OW!" she shouted, rubbing through her hair. She shivered and glared resentfully at the skull, which continued grinning unconcerned.

"Met my friend, have you?" Sherlock's bemused voice called from below. "Try not to damage the skull. One never knows when they'll find a de-fleshed skeleton in the woods worthy of study. The rest is down here in the pantry. Fully articulated, of course. You might find it useful. Healers know so little of bones, but I blame the backward thinking of human law, preventing more study of corpses."

Molly sat down on the edge of the mattress, and located her socks bedside. "I know a lot about bones. Grandmother has books. I'm not sure they're permitted, but…" She tugged the socks onto her feet, and stretched her arms. She was surprisingly not sore, and not as cold as she thought she would be- the enclosed room had retained all her warmth, she supposed.

She'd thought that her racing mind would never quiet enough for her to sleep, but she'd fallen into slumber almost immediately after crawling up the ladder and into his bed.

In the darkness, she'd been unable to make out many details- only that the loft contained a mattress on the floor, a round glassed window on each end of the room (one just above the head of the bed), and that it appeared to be filled with boxes.

Now Molly saw that the boxes overflowed with books and a strange assortment of objects, like the ones below. Atop one pile laid a sketch that resembled Sherlock and another man with a similarly bored expression of his face. Another box contained polished boards with long-dead moths and beetles pinned to it. Another held crude crafts that looked like something a child would produce, sticks tied together and decorated with dried flowers and bright pigments. Molly leaned over from the bed, and plucked one from the box.

She sniffed the crossed sticks, but any odor was long faded. She wondered why a man who disdained sentiment would keep such an item. It reminded her of the toys she would make for herself when she wandered the forest in her mostly lonely childhood.

"When you're done nosing around that box, perhaps you might unlock the door and toss down a change of clothing?"

Molly looked up guiltily, expecting Sherlock's ruthless eyes to be on her, but she was still alone in the loft.

"How do you do that?" she called tentatively. She placed the rough craft back into the crate, and reached for her gown, donning it quickly.

"Your footsteps are clear down here. Something startled you badly- what else but the skull on the table by my bed?-you arose from bed quickly, bumped your head and then it's logical you would look around to ascertain your environment. You stepped toward a box and picked something up, judging by your pause and the light rasping sound the object made when you pulled it from the box. Look on the far side of the room- there's a trunk. My clothes. Throw something down."

Molly found the trunk and cautiously made her way through the boxes to it, keeping her head low under the ceiling. It was unlocked.

"What do you want to wear?"

"I don't care."

"Oh. Alright." Molly rummaged through the trunk. She hadn't chosen a man's outfit since the death of her husband. There was something intimate about the process of running her hands over the fabrics and choosing what would be on his body. Feeling foolish, she grabbed a pair of simple black trousers, a white linen shirt, and braces. She slid the bar from the lock over the door, opened the trapdoor and popped her head out into the main room of the cottage.

Sherlock stood immediately below her, looking up expectantly. She didn't know why she was surprised he was naked.

Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. She stared gracelessly at the contours of his lean body for half a minute before realizing her eyes were lingering openly.

"Oh!" Molly retreated instinctively, and bumped the back of her head on the floor opening.

"Is this a habit of yours? Perhaps you should invest in a heavy, cushioned hat of some sort?" Sherlock's eyebrow rose. "My clothes?"

Molly threw the armful of clothing down at him and pulled back into the loft, forcing herself to look away from the expanse of pale flesh and muscle below her. He shrugged at her reaction, and pulled on the trousers, securing the braces to the loops on the waist before yanking the snug shirt over his head and drawing the braces over his shoulders.

"Socks?"

Molly scurried over to the trunk and found a pair in the corner. She dropped it down to him, and glanced at him quickly enough to establish he was clothed now.

He sat down on the chair, and put on the socks and his shoes. Without looking up, he commented. "Modesty is tedious, Molly. I don't care if you look."

Above, she smiled in spite of herself. She was being stupid, really. It's not like she was a virgin or married anymore. She was a woman grown and free to do as she liked. And it's not like there was anyone out here in the woods to gossip, now was there.

"I'm going to check the lands around to make certain they haven't gotten cute and returned, despite our agreement. I shouldn't be gone more than a half hour. Don't wander off. Be ready for the Colony then."

The door slammed shut.

Molly carefully climbed down the ladder and saw he'd left a small fire burning in the hearth, and the last piece of rabbit warming inside the pot.

She nibbled at the meat thoughtfully, and wondered what Sherlock would have done if she'd joined him in the room without bringing him clothing.

* * *

 _Too long since the last mating,_ _too many years_ , the animal part of his brain scolded him. _She knows you're wolf. She knows your wolf. Fed her. She likes you. She looks at you with hunger. Smells good._

 _Shut up,_ he admonished himself. _And appearances don't matter anyway, except for what I can deduce from them._ He scanned the lands as he walked, staying in human form. He walked without a limp, though he still felt a twinge in his calf. The stitches had cut the healing time in half, but he didn't want to exhaust himself by shifting unless he had to.

He was aware that arguing with oneself might be symptomatic of some brain condition, perhaps brought on by his extended periods alone in the forest. His kind weren't meant to be alone; they preferred packs, like their purely lupine cousins. Wolfkind were few and scattered after the purge, and he was too dominant to share territory with other strong ones like his brother. Managing a small pack of his own would require far too much attention, and too few rewards. There was a world to explore and study, and pack politics were the definition of boring.

_Let Mycroft have negotiations and politics, let him worry about the future of our kind. I don't need a pack and I don't need a mate. Even if I hadn't agreed to the arrangement, it would be the same. I gave up nothing._

* * *

Inside the cottage, Molly pushed back the drapes from all the windows and squinted. The colored shapes in the glass were there, but hard to make out with vines choking the light out of the house. The colors all seemed dark grey and green and there was no life.

She frowned. Molly hurried outside, reached into her red cloak and drew out her knife with a smile.

* * *

After hacking and sawing away the ivies overgrowing the windows outside with her sharp blade, she went back inside, briefly paranoid that the wolves might return. Her hands were sore, and Sherlock was bound to come back soon, the task having taken longer than she'd realized it would. When she stepped through the door, she felt like she'd come back to a different place.

Sunshine poured in through the windows now, through the stained glass, throwing beams of colored light across the walls. The glass tubes along the walls and ceiling reflected the intense hues, and the smothering dimness of the cottage was replaced with illumination.

"Let's see your gas lights do that!" Molly said with a giggle. She spun around, appreciating the shades that poured from the four windows. As she took in the stained glass with a new eye, she saw a story come to life, when she viewed them in order.

"Of course, nothing as simple as just a pretty picture for you, is there Sherlock," she murmured to herself.

The windows told a story. The same story, in fact, as the one he had told her the night before.

The first window, by the back door, showed a crowned man in purple standing proudly in a forest, with a huge wolf, stained reddish brown and black, at his side. A bright yellow sun shone down on them, and snow-capped peaks appeared behind the trees.

The second window, to the right of the front door, depicted the prince (Llewellyn, she recalled) standing by a castle, presenting the wolf to a cluster of people. The wolf's muzzle was tipped proudly, and the corners of his mouth turned upward. The prince's hand rested in the fur of the wolf's back.

The third window, to the left of the door, took a darker turn. An overturned cradle lay on the ground, and a monstrous and dark wolf muzzle (brilliantly done in scarlet-stained glass) dominated the frame. A lethal sword point entered the frame at the top, portraying the moment just before the prince's blade put an end to the wolf who'd betrayed him.

The fourth and last window was a sad end to the tale. The corpses of two wolves were half-inside a hole dug between trees, and the prince stood over the grave, sorrowful and clutching a tiny human form wrapped in a blanket. The proud prince who had befriended a wild creature, and in the end, betrayed him, was left with nothing.

Molly sighed. Why would Sherlock choose such a gruesome story to illustrate? And why would he create the glass at all? It hardly seemed scientific, anything of interest to a chemist. Even a chemist interested in the properties of glass.

She pondered the strangeness of Sherlock, and then realized that something was wrong.

Four windows.

But as she had circled the cottage outside, slicing away the overgrown vines, she had seen _five_ windows, all with color peeking through. She hadn't given it any thought, but looking around the room now she realized there must be a fifth window.

Molly scanned the room, frustrated momentarily to see only the four expected frames. But a moment later, her eyes landed on the pantry door, and she cursed herself for missing the obvious. She threw the door open and peered inside.

She giggled. A fully articulated skeleton hung from the wall to her right, the bones connected with bits of string and twine. The order of the bones looked correct from what she had learned in Gran's books. Its head was missing, since it was still up in the loft, but Sherlock had placed a stuffed cushion above the spine, and capped it with a hideous winter hunter's hat with earflaps.

 _I'm coming back here to have a good look at you, whether he likes or not,_ she said to the skeleton silently. She stepped past it, and squinted. Even with the vines hacked away from the window, the pantry was still dark and dusty. But toward the back, a sliver of colored light beamed through the dim narrow room.

She stumbled over a box of iron blocks, and nudged aside a seamstress's dummy before reaching the last cabinet. Just beyond that was a square of stained glass, the smallest of the five windows in the cottage.

The setting was the same as the fourth window, a grave amid trees. But now, there was a pile of dirt beside the hole and two nude men stood by it, facing one another. The prince was gone, and a circle of oversized wolves stood around the two men.

 _This is how the story really ends?_ Molly furrowed her brow and edged closer. She traced the shapes, her fingers trailing along the lines of the men shapes. One was rather short, with cropped black hair, with dark eyes and circles under them. The other man was taller, with curly dark hair and electric blue eyes staring outward.

The depictions were somewhat indistinct, with the limitations of the medium, but the taller man's features were detailed and there was no doubt- Sherlock had placed himself inside the stained glass. He had inserted himself into the story of the wolf Huw.

* * *

"All clear, not a trace of scent for miles. Been in the pantry I see. Found the rest of my friend there, I imagine." Sherlock burst through the door, his rapid speech jarring Molly from her ruminating. Spots of color touched his cheeks, and he carried with him the crisp scent of autumn deepening to winter.

She looked up from her place, seated on the mat. "How did you-"

"How did I know? Door's open a hand wider than earlier and I suspected you'd have a look anyway after seeing the skull. It's what I'd do."

"Can you- can you really smell them after they've gone?" She fiddled with the cloak between her fingers, wondering if the question was offensive.

He pursed his lips for a few seconds. "Yes. It's useful."

"I imagine it would be. Shall we?" Molly stood and scooped up her basket, packed and ready.

"Fantastic." He paused. "Everything's uncovered. You saw how it ended."

She smiled briefly. "Yes. But I don't think I understand."

"You don't have to. We're wasting time."

* * *

They wound their way through the forest safely, the day chilly but clear. Sherlock added a black cloak to his clothing, but she suspected it was more for appearances, since he never looked cold, and he'd left the shirt's throat untied and open as always.

They arrived at the Colony shortly before noon, the sun high in the sky and Molly's cheeks red from the winds. She chatted while they walked, and despite the occasional rude snort from Sherlock when she tried to make a joke, their journey was companionable.

He never slowed down for her, she noticed, but whether that was deliberate or part of his self-absorption she didn't know. She would develop strong leg muscles from chasing after him if she kept taking walks with the odd man, she thought with a grin.

"Molly! Back so soon! What a treat." Grandmother bent over the stream outside her cabin, filling her bucket with clean water and rinsing off two teacups. "Come give me a kiss, dear. Is there something wrong in the Village?" She cleared her throat, looked at Sherlock, and phrased it delicately. "Or a new patient for us…"

"Oh no, Gran, he's not ill. This is my friend Sherlock. He's- well, it's complicated. He wants to help."

"A _friend?_ " A twinkle appeared in her grandmother's eye.

* * *

Sherlock sat stiffly at Grandmother's table, eyes roaming around the small house. Molly was about to ask what he observed from the cabin, when Grand plunked the tea cups down and began pouring.

"Will your gentleman friend be joining us?" Sherlock asked casually.

"What?" The tea splashed onto the saucer as the older woman's hand shook and she overpoured.

"You were washing two teacups at the stream. Morning tea with someone, and there's a pair of men's trousers in the mending pile. Not to mention marked indents in two pillows on the bed." He sipped the tea and his shrewd gaze met Grandmother's boldly.

"Gran? But there isn't anyone here who…Angelo?!" Molly blushed and felt the urge to dump the tea into Sherlock's lap.

Grandmother shook her finger at Sherlock. "Never mind that, you mind your own business, lad. A bit rude, you are." Her face was pinker than usual, and she fiddled with her collar.

"Your mannerisms are very much like your granddaughter's, did you know that? Behavior is passed down even more than hair and eye color, in families." He set the cup down and glanced around. "This is useless. When can I access the patients?"

A knock came at the door, and before they responded, a man's voice called out. "Mrs. Hudson? It's just me, may I come in?"

"John, darling, come in for tea." She bustled around the counter and found another clean cup.

The ash-haired healer paused when he spotted Sherlock. "Oh, I apologize, didn't know you had a visitor. I can come back later. It's just about the sage pots."

"No, no, sit, please." She poured him a cup. "This is Molly's special friend, Sherlock."

"What does she mean by special friends?" A wrinkle showed between his eyes. "Are we friends?"

Desperate to change the subject, Molly pressed on. "John, Sherlock is a scientist and he is studying the Falling and he has special equipment. And I agreed to help him secure samples from the patients. He's not a healer but he is a chemist. Any help is welcome, I say." She smiled gently, and John returned the warm smile.

"He's married." Sherlock's voice was cold.

"Sorry?" John frowned. His head tilted toward the stranger and Molly saw a colder look form in the healer's normally friendly eyes.

"He's married. You should know that."

"Why? I mean, he _was_ married, I think?" Molly's gaze shifted to the other man. "You still wear the wedding ring, I noticed, but I thought…the Falling."

"Not that it's any of his business, but…yes. I didn't know you lot before I came here. I thought if you knew about Mary, you might not want me working here. People think anyone whose spouse is ill is bound to catch it."

"Only a man with so much to lose would invest so much of himself into searching for the cure. I saw her when I was here before. She wears a blue cowl. Arrived around the same time as John I would assume. His ring is pristine. This one is _taken."_ Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Painfully obvious. Anyway, it doesn't matter who is sick, what I need is data."

"Oh, John." Gran's hand flew to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, dear. The blue cowl, the pretty blonde woman…"

"Yes, her face is still untouched." John's eyes were steely now. "That's good you want to investigate the disease. And it is actually rather impressive the way you can see and understand things."

"Yes, I agree."

"But if you ever again imply that it doesn't matter who is ill, _who_ these people are, I will personally thrash you within an inch of your life."

"Caring about them won't make research any easier or quicker." Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently on the table.

"Try it." The healer's jaw was set in the stubborn way Molly recognized now.

"I will do my best to learn the disease. That is the truth. Come with me to the caves to take samples. It will be faster, Molly is too delicate with them. You can share your observations from the outbreaks up north with me. An assistant is helpful on occasion. I like to talk aloud, helps me think better."

John relaxed, and nodded. Molly saw the tension slip away from his shoulders. Without warning, his lined, round face broke into a grin.

"If you can find a real lead, Sherlock, a way to treat or cure my Mary, I'll be the best damned friend you ever had."

* * *

John and Sherlock returned from the caves two hours later with an armful of vials and pots. Sherlock was shaking his head in disagreement over something the other man was explaining. Watching from her place by the stream, while she helped Grandmother with a load of laundry from the patients, Molly wondered. John seemed closed to striking him not that long ago and now the two men argued comfortably while they walked.

 _There's something about him_ , she thought _. Something about Sherlock that entrances people._

John ducked into the cabin he shared with Angelo, and came back out with a sack. He and Sherlock loaded the samples into it carefully. John extended his hand, and Sherlock looked puzzled.

She saw the healer's mouth moving and then Sherlock's face clearing as he extended his own hand to clasp John's.

 _How long has he been out there alone in the forest?_ she again wondered.

* * *

Grandmother tucked a fresh loaf of bread into Molly's basket and kissed her cheeks in farewell. Angelo came out from the ovens to say goodbye as well, and Molly saw now the way he stood closely to her grandmother. It had never occurred to her that Gran might want romantic attachments. Just because her husband was long dead, that didn't mean she had to give up on companionship. She was still free, even being involved with a man.

Leave it to Sherlock to open her eyes to something stunningly obvious.

The man himself waited by the forest's edge, restless and taking huge bites from an apple. He picked the core clean and tossed it into the woods.

Their eyes met, and Molly smiled. He raised his eyebrows, impatient again, but she saw a flash of warmth there as well.

She thought. She hoped.

* * *

The afternoon had been eaten away by the Colony, but they made it to the Village without incident. Molly had offered to continue on by herself when they passed the breaking off point toward his cottage but he brushed the suggestion away without verbal response.

They stopped by a copse of birch trees at the edge of town. The sky had darkened and the first signs of stars formed in the sky.

"I don't like town. It smells terrible. Too many people. You should be safe here." He shifted the sack hanging over his shoulder.

"Right, um, so how are you going to study the samples?" Molly found herself thinking of questions, anything that would delay his leaving her.

"The glass, Molly. I studied the structure, the curve and the magnifying properties of glass for a functional reason. When placed under a glass of special design, the tissue appears vastly larger and I can see the very shape of things and how they work."

"That sounds amazing. Do you think I could, maybe, look too? Sometime?" She stepped closer to him, the coldness of night falling starting to sink into her.

Sherlock abruptly turned his head to her, and held her stare.

"No. I don't need your help. You'd be in the way. "

Molly's face burned. "I would not! I can help. You let John help you today."

He shrugged. "I don't need you anymore. Good night." He pivoted on his feet and took a step toward the dark path homeward.

"You were jealous."

"What?" He scoffed and turned around.

"You went out of your way to tell me John was married when I smiled at him. And said I 'should know' that he was married. I'm not stupid, I can read people too," she said triumphantly.

"Ridiculous. Are you sure you're not stupid after all?" His eyes narrowed and he spun around.

"Sherlock." She grabbed his shoulder from behind. "This is my town. I need to help you. You might need more samples, to test new ideas. If you don't allow me to help you, I'll, I'll…find another way. It makes more sense to work together."

He sighed and set down the sack. He pressed his palms together, almost like praying. His eyes were half-closed in thought.

Sensing a weakening in his resistance, she stepped around in front of him and set both her hands on his shoulders firmly.

"I think we were meant to meet in the woods, Sherlock. And I haven't forgotten that you saved me. I don't understand all of it yet, but I want to. Do you understand?" She looked up into his face, and his eyes opened blazing.

"You couldn't just leave it." His face was stormy. "No one is supposed to- they never-" His thought was cut off when Molly wrapped her arms his neck and pulled him down to brush her lips against his lightly.

She tilted her head and waited for him to smile, or push her away, or shout, or kiss her gently in return. Each second she waited felt like an hour.

In the end, he did none of those things.

He pulled back, and searched her face. She felt his unflinching eyes on her lips, her nose, her eyebrows, the waves of brown hair that spilled out of her cloak across her chest. He studied her anew, looking for some hint, some clue in her, she sensed, the way he saw everything around him.

After a moment, a look of resignation crossed his face. "You're a fool, Molly."

"Yes," she said, her fingers stroking the curls on the back of his head.

"We're all bloody fools," he agreed. Without another word, he slid his hands under her cloak and pressed her back hard against the birch tree. Her cloak looked like blood against the white bark. His fingers dug deep in her hips and Molly held him tight, waiting, letting him decide.

He lifted one hand to untie the cloak at her throat, and dropped his head to nuzzle at the soft skin of her neck. His full lips tickled the sensitive skin, and she twisted her head to the side to give him access. The curious tasting kisses, experimental after a long drought for both of them, changed quickly: the teeth and tongue at Molly's throat were rough and hungry. His teeth grazed the spot where her shoulder and neck met, and she shivered, feeling consumed by the questing hands squeezing her and the mouth tasting her skin. Her hands sank into his hair, scratching his scalp, and with a dark groan, he pushed himself further between her thighs, trapping her between him and the tree.

Molly smiled and saw through hazy eyes that he'd dropped the elegantly casual way he always stood. His muscles were tight and focused and she shifted her legs to help when she felt his fingers bunching up the fabric of her skirt to draw it up. For once, he looked as raw as he made her feel.

"Ohh," she sighed as his nails dragged along the skin of her inner thigh while his teeth sank into her neck again. His fingers skimmed over the silky flesh, teasing her until she was pressing her hand over his, urging him higher while he sucked on the marks he made over her throat.

His teeth grazed her, this time deeper and harder, and he concentrated on that one sweet spot that made her writhe against his hand under her skirt. His mouth on her neck pulled harder, until the overwhelming sensation was tipping into pain.

"Sherlock?" she said faintly. He licked at the mark and dug in again with his teeth, a growl rumbling against her skin.

"I- ow, that, that _hurts,"_ Molly managed. "Could you go a little softer-"

Sherlock leapt back from her as though he'd been struck. His breathing was ragged and his eyes shut. His hands shook.

"Oh, it's not that bad, it was just a little…we don't have to stop altogether," she said shyly.

"No." His voice was glacially cold.

"Sherl-"

His eyes flew open. They were a shimmering golden yellow, so bright it almost hurt to look into them. She remembered those eyes peering at her from the wolf touching her knee.

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's alright, please." Molly reached out for him, and he rushed backward. Even in the moment, she amazed at his unerring instinct, how he didn't walk into any trees or rocks.

"It's not alright."

She rubbed absently at her neck where he'd bitten her. "I think I know what you're afraid of, and-"

He pushed past her and grabbed the sack by her feet. "You don't know anything. John Watson is not completely incompetent. I'll send any results on to him. No need for you." He strode away, his black cloak aiding him in vanishing quickly into the darkness of the forest.

Molly watched him disappear, and balled her fists in frustration. The bite wasn't even hard enough to break the skin, and truth be told, she loved it until the last second. How could such a reasonable man, even one as unusual as he, be irrational when it came to intimacy?

She picked up the basket, straightened out her cloak and headed for her cottage. Molly resolved to ask Soo Lin for advice on the morrow, and to ask her about the gifts she'd given her. The silver knife and the painted pots presented their own puzzles that she'd almost forgotten in the madness.

Molly's head was swimming with another addition to the breathtaking turns her life had taken recently. In the morning, she would sort it out, and decide on a plan of attack after talking it over with her friend.

For a quiet village that offered little entertainment and variety in the past, it was suddenly swarming with mystery.

* * *

A few hundred paces away, perched atop a tree, a man sat. His emerald green long coat was dashing but out of place. Though he was far away, he could see the couple clearly through trees with his wolfen eyes. He nibbled a pear while the man began to make love to the female, but laughed when the man tore himself away from her before completing the act and ran off.

"Still a killjoy, I see." The Professor dropped the half-eaten pear and it landed with a thunk on the arm of the man standing fifty feet below.

"What the hell?" The muscular blond craned his neck up to glare. "Are we done here? Did he shag the girl or what?"

The Professor didn't answer, but a sickly grin spread across his cheerful face. He hopped down from the high branches and landed neatly next to the blond strongman.

"He did not. But he did something even better. He marked her." He whistled and brushed the dying leaves off his glossy coat.

"I don't think there's any need to play around with the Village any longer. The weather's turned, we can't waste any more time hiding in the woods here, though the hunting has been pleasant. The town is weak, ripe as the others were for a good plucking. And then onto the next."

Moran smirked, and scratched his bearded chin. "Lupercalia then."

"Lupercalia indeed. But right now we have an even more immediate situation with our old friend. He could interfere, he's been nosing around in his _ordinary_ goody-goody way. We agreed to steer clear of his territory if he didn't expand his pack or cover more area." Professor Moriarty turned to Moran, and his face lit with an angelic smile. He snapped his teeth at the lieutenant playfully, and then broke into hysterical laughter.

"But oh, happy day! Our tame brother has broken the agreement. Sherlock is courting _a mate."_


	7. The Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter is pretty bloody between the wolves, and also the story about the baby's death comes back, so consider this your trigger warning.*

Sherlock fled through the trees, the sack of patient samples banging around on his back. His long legs carried him in the darkness at a speed no human could match. If he wasn't burdened with the sack of delicate containers, he would've shifted form and run on four legs, pouring his frustration into a hunt until he forgot himself.

He had come with a hair's breadth of turning the woman, cutting through her skin with his teeth until the potential in her blood was awoken. Another bite into her sweet-smelling neck and it would've happened; she would be wolf and his. And a rather large part of himself still wanted to turn around and run back to Molly, to cover her face with kisses until she laid with him in the leaves and begged for his teeth in her neck.

 _She would be such a beautiful wolf_ , he thought against his will. _They would run and explore together._

The wolves of this region were mostly grey, but his line produced a more mixed variety. If he brought her over to his kind, she'd likely share his dark brown and red coloring and a pale belly, but with a smaller body and smoother legs.

Sherlock pushed the thought of her from his mind, and rushed home. When he arrived at the cottage, he dumped the samples on the table and realized he would need to wait until daylight to get to work. The gas for the tube lighting was too low, and the Crescent Swamp too far for a quick refilling.

There was nothing useful to be done. He shucked his clothing in a heap by the door, and shifted into wolf form on the doorstep. The moon rose high overhead and the coming winter was in the air. He threw his head back and howled a ringing cry that could be heard for miles.

Sherlock dove into the forest, sniffing out the passage of smaller creatures. He let the raw mind of the wolfkind drive him, so he wouldn't think about how close he'd been to breaking the only arrangement that kept his sanctuary intact.

All for her.

* * *

All stories told around the hearth hold a grain of truth.

In the case of the wolf Huw and Prince Llewellyn, every word Sherlock spoke was true. He had left out most of the details because there was no point in dwelling on the prince's betrayal and his own failure to understand the magnitude of ambition and hatred that can be contained in one being.

The retold tale was leaner, more elegant, and never really ended.

* * *

He'd gone for a run in the forest of the valley, and grown careless in the familiar territory. The sensitivity of his vision and smell was so overwhelming that he sometimes missed things.

He didn't smell the steel among the leaves and flowers until the teeth of the wolf trap snapped closed around his leg.

Blood dripped slowly from the row of wounds, but only a little, with the steel still buried in his flesh, just above the paw of his left hind leg. Sherlock lay on the ground in shock. Within ten seconds, his human logic pushed through the animal panic to assess the emergency.

He examined the injury and the trap locked around his throbbing leg. It wasn't as deep as he'd initially feared; the old trap's bolts had rusted and loosened over the seasons it had lain abandoned in the rain and snow. Sherlock observed the lethal metal teeth, and realized his leg would likely have been severed by the overly tight trap if it hadn't rusted. It had clearly been set for a regular wolf, not one of his kind, as the points were not tipped with silver.

Though not deep, that many silver-gouged wounds would've poisoned his blood and he'd be experiencing an agonizing, slow death already.

 _Boring_ , he thought.

He could get out of the trap by fiddling with the rusted bolts, but not as a wolf. He forced himself to shut out the pain and relax. Sherlock breathed slowly, and his human form came to him instinctively. His muzzle faded, his eyes dimmed, and dexterous fingers appeared in place of strong but clumsy paws.

He was still lying on the ground nude and gasping from the rushed shapechange, when he realized a man was standing over him. Judging by the awed and terrified look on the stranger's face, Sherlock deduced that the man had seen something incredible- him shifting.

"Well," he said through gritted teeth. "This is awkward. You haven't got a cranking tool or a pry to speed up getting this off me, have you?"

The man gazed down at him in wonder, and an amazed grin spread across his face. "As a matter of fact, I do." He produced a pry from his hunting pouch, and Sherlock set to work.

* * *

It was obvious from the start that the man was wealthy from his clothing and boots. The expensive blacking polish on his fine leather boots was sold only in the city of the valley, so the rich man was likely local. The style of his garments was simple, practical for a hunt, but the gold-thread stitching on the breast of his overcoat left no doubt. The specificity of the sigil helped narrow down the man's exact station.

Sherlock mopped the blood from his leg, freed from the trap, using broad leaves. The wounds were already beginning to close. The hunter watched him closely, a thousand questions written on his face.

"If you're trying to pass as a commoner on your hunting excursion, perhaps you ought not to wear your family sigil openly. Though your skills would be considered minor by my kind, your fame as a hunter is well known, Prince Llewellyn."

* * *

He was of the blood, of course. It was likely why the Prince had not run screaming from the woods after seeing a wolf turn into a man. Though not brilliant, he was a fine hunter and smarter than most of his citizens and kin.

He hadn't explained to Molly how young the wolf was then, or how he still believed then that humans and wolf could live in peace.

Llewellyn dubbed him "Huw," a name he said suited the wolf and they became fast friends. Huw had never had a friend or a steady companion beyond his older brother who was insufferable and hardly counted.

Llewellyn's kingdom struggled with the changes in the world, their isolated home slowly infected with the darker elements of the world beyond their mountains. He had no concept of how to handle the sudden influx of crime in his valley that had always been so simple. His local constables had no idea how to solve a murder, or determine who was stealing entire cows from farmers. Huw's brilliant solutions were a boon to the Prince, and he- Huw- came to understand that his brain could be a gift for others and not merely himself.

He didn't know why that mattered, but it did. And it was fun, the way the humans appreciated what seemed so simple to him.

He was granted every right as a high-ranking noble in the court, no matter that he had no family name and history. He was a noted eccentric, and the servants were informed that Huw's "pet wolf' was to be allowed free access to the grounds. He was a tame creature, and though he didn't like to be petted, was no threat to humans.

It worked and the wolf was proud of having discovered a place in the world for himself, without the interference and controlling ways of his family. He didn't need a pack. He didn't need anyone.

But it was nice to have a friend.

The Prince's son was born after a long, difficult pregnancy. The Princess was an unhappy woman, and Huw knew that Llewellyn hoped that the child would bring them closer together as they had been in the early days of their marriage. His friend was a good man, but it was obvious to Huw that the child wouldn't solve the problems inherent in the pairing. Still, it was an optimistic time, and when the Prince asked Huw to stay with the child for him while he went on a hunting trip, he was strangely honored.

And then the grey wolf arrived.

He didn't run through the castle, tearing a bloody path. He ducked through a lowly kitchen door in the shape of a short, black-haired man with an unusual lilting accent. He charmed the dish maids with red ribbons, and slid into the royal residence easily.

Sherlock recognized the notorious outlaw the moment he stepped through the nursery's door, and felt the first shiver of fear he'd experienced since the steel trap closed on his leg. The peaceful time fell away, and he was the docile royal friend no longer. Huw was gone.

The black-haired man wore an inhuman smile, and his clothes dropped to the ground as he shifted to wolf.

_Moriarty._

Moriarty, the rebel who had fled the established family packs decades before, and become a legend, a curse to human and wolf alike. He didn't attack wolves, claiming he valued his brothers, but he tore into human villages and gorged himself on the blood and carnage.

And Sherlock would finally face him.

His name was whispered among young wolves, but he had vanished for so long that some had begun to believe he was dead, caught in a hunter's trap or in a killer winter storm somewhere. It was hard to say. Some wolves began to swear he had never existed, but a painted portrait of the man was tucked away in a book in Sherlock's father's shelf. He used to pore over the pages depicting the outcasts of the clans, intrigued by the rare crimes that popped up among wolfkind.

_He is real, and he will not hurt this child._

The first unexpected swipe of Moriarty's paw knocked Sherlock against the wall, nearly cracking his skull. The grey wolf had moved so quickly, he hadn't even deduced the tiny motions that would normally convey someone's intent in a fight.

Sherlock staggered to his four feet, and lurched for the grey wolf. He was unsteady, his keen intelligence and calm shaken by the blow to his head. He was bleeding and dizzy, and all his senses were off.

Moriarty growled and his muzzle dripped. He shifted his paws, deciding his next move. He stared thoughtfully at his opponent and even in lupine form, Sherlock sensed the cold cunning his eyes. He edged forward, and Sherlock stepped back to give himself springing room. Moriarty advanced more, and they were wound tightly, both ready for the moment of leaping at one another in a fatal clash.

At the last second, with no hint of it anywhere in his powerful form, the grey wolf leapt to the right, crushing the cradle in one vicious jump, his massive paws shattering the child's bed to splinters. The boy disappeared beneath the wreckage with a high-pitched wail that stopped abruptly.

Sherlock howled and raged and was on Moriarty just as he landed but he couldn't stop the momentum of the huge wolf or knock his paws safely away from the cradle's contents. The grey wolf made a strangled yip that sounded like laughter that continued until Sherlock sunk his teeth in his neck and tore into it.

They rolled on the floor of the nursery, thrashing and bloody in madness. He heard the child's heart stop and knew it was too late. There was nothing left but to destroy the monster that had inexplicably taken the baby's life. Moriarty howled and fought, his long claws cutting and slicing over and over, but Sherlock's rage matched the murderer's and he didn't let go until the grey wolf was limp on the floor, behind the door.

The blood pool spread across the creamy carpet of the nursery. Moriarty's heart still beat, but very slowly. The blood loss would kill him if Sherlock didn't finish him immediately, or if he didn't get help for his wounds. Sherlock was exhausted, and his leg was torn badly. He crawled toward the remains of the cradle.

The smell of blood coated him and the room until he was drowning in it.

He never realized that Llewellyn had returned until he heard the Prince's normally mild voice bellowing in grief.

Sherlock, in wolf form still, looked at up his friend and saw the sword rise up.

It never occurred to him to fight.

* * *

They were buried together in the woods, the humans not understanding that the wolfkind experienced a mild form of hibernation when they were wounded, as a way of healing. No one wanted to come close enough to the beasts to listen for a heartbeat. He supposed that with so much blood, they must have looked properly dead.

He felt dead. He was dimly aware of falling, sliding into the moist earth, but it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered until the soil was hauled away from his face and body that had shifted back to human, and he realized that a pack of wolves in man form were standing around the large grave.

* * *

"So RUDE, Sherlock. I mean honestly!" Moriarty paced around the grave, bouncing back and forth between his followers who peered down at Sherlock in the grave, now cleared of dirt.

"You interfered with my business. I hate hurting my own kind. I _hate_ it. And you, almost killing me! I have to admit, I'm a little impressed. I'd heard you had a high opinion of your own skills, but I'm starting to believe it might have been earned." A blond-haired man brought a bucket of water to Moriarty and he washed his face first, and then the rest of his body.

Another man brought him a stack of clothing. He donned the black trousers and shirt, and covered them with a green overcoat.

"Why?" Sherlock brushed the dirt from his hands, and stood calmly, in the grave. His head was swimming and he had to concentrate in order to keep his eyes locked on the enemy. His leg ached badly but the gashes were closing and there would be no permanent damage to it. The deadly gash on Moriarty's throat had closed almost entirely, he saw before the man put his shirt on.

"Why not?" Moriarty smiled gently, his nearly-black eyes seeming to grow larger as they bore into him. _"Think,_ why don't you."

He struggled through the disorientation and masked its effect when he spoke. "If you'd wanted to consume a baby, there are plenty in the village that would've been far simpler to secure. Taboo yes, but you've never been concerned with our kind's taboos. You targeted the child of the Prince. You're wolfkind, not human, so you wouldn't be competing to be the heir. The only possible benefit would be in the toll it takes on the Prince himself. And his wife? You mean to ruin them. Why?"

"Because it kills their spirit, and burns the heart out of them. Kill Llewellyn, we'd have a new Prince. Some older cousin or lordling." He shrugged, and looked around, bored. Sherlock felt the pressure in his head lessen briefly. "But now…he survives, but his heart is lost. The great hunter is broken." Moriarty pulled a sad face and then laughed. "And our kind will thrive."

"You mean _you_. You'll thrive."

"Well _yeah_ , including me. But you too. I rather enjoy you." He turned his gaze back to Sherlock, and the faint sensation of spinning crept into Sherlock's mind again. "I've been watching. Solving crimes for the good prince. That's cute. I liked the one where you deduced that the farmer's wife was drugging his coffee with poppy milk every night and selling his cows to the butcher so she could run away with the blacksmith. Right clever."

Sherlock tipped his head. What was wrong with him? Had the blow to his skull done permanent damage? "Why am I still alive?"

"Told you, I like you. Up you go." Moriarty bent to one knee and extended a hand to the other man. His face was shockingly cheerful for a man who'd nearly died the night before.

Sherlock ignored the hand and pulled himself out of the grave. The pack of wolf men surrounded him and Moriarty.

"I'd ask you to join me, but I don't think you'd accept."

Even in his clouded mind, Sherlock remembered the small feet poking out from under the destroyed cradle and felt his resolve strengthen. "No. You may as well kill me now while I'm weaker."

Despite his remark, he began formulating a plan. If he could break through the circle, he might be able to reach the castle grounds. He was faster than any of these fools, and obviously smarter.

Moriarty saw the way his mind had turned. "You can't go back, Sherlock. There's a bounty of all of us now. If they saw you survived, they'd kill you or chase you away. But that's not enough for you to join us, is it." The shorter man smiled again, this time softer and his eyes more reflective. "No. No, you're not our side. But there's hope. I'm going to present you another offer and you're going to accept it."

Sherlock scanned the forest around them, looking for escape or something he could use to distract them. "I doubt it."

He laughed. "Oh I think you will. I'm offering you freedom."

One eyebrow rose. "And the terms?"

"You'll keep to your chosen territory- and I'll be kind enough to let you leave this area to find your own place- and don't bring over any more wolves. If you don't join our pack, you certainly can't find another one. No packs and no mates . And if you keep to that, I'll let you alone. Happily! Why, you wonder? Because you're special but it's too soon. Give it time. You won't be able to keep your word forever. Soon or later, you'll want to run with us. Or you'll give into the need for pack, and take a mate. And then you and I will dance. Killing you right now would be so boring." He grinned and clapped his hands together. He closed his eyes and swayed in happiness.

Sherlock immediately felt the effect in his brain lessen. It was Moriarty, he was _doing_ something to him. "Well when you put it that way, I accept. I expect to never see you again, Moriarty."

The men around them sneered. Their leader waved them back, and the wolves stepped aside to break the circle around the grave.

Moriarty walked past them and looked back at Sherlock. "You may never see me again but I'll certainly see you. Come along, boys. Daddy's bored. This game is played _out._ "

* * *

Sherlock stumbled through the woods until he found an abandoned shack to sleep in. After he got away from the other wolves and his mind cleared completely, it was obvious what had happened.

He was aware of his thought process being interfered with, but when he was under Moriarty's spell, he hadn't been able to pinpoint why, wrongly blaming the head wound. He was no stranger to the mind fog; Mycroft used to taunt him with it when they were young, and had manipulated him into doing his chores for him, the lazy sod. When they grew older, before they learned to hate each other, they used to practice on one other more seriously, until no one in the extended clan could match Mycroft and Sherlock's skill in the fog.

Moriarty had slapped that gift away from him with one look of his dark eyes. And he was so subtle, Sherlock hadn't even known it was happening until it was over.

 _I've grown weak, living with humans_ , he realized. _They were small and unintelligent. I was used to being the best._

_And I trusted them. I trusted Llewellyn. Being with others is dangerous._

He remembered the arrangement he had just accepted. With resignation, he began to plot the future.

_Alone will protect me._

* * *

The years passed, and more decades than Sherlock could count. The arrangement was a long-distant memory but it was easy to abide by. He had no desire to commit himself to one mate for life, as the wolves usually did, and he never liked being suffocated with a pack.

His cottage in the woods was safe and warm and full of interesting things. The outside world changed, and new inventions came and aged and disintegrated, and Sherlock survived.

It wasn't until a woman in a red-hooded cloak fell to the earth by his stream that he realized how hungry he'd grown for company. Someone to ramble to when he had a brilliant thought and wanted to know he hadn't gone completely mad.

He'd thought the urge would go away after she ran off. Or after she left the Colony the first time. But she kept throwing him off, twisting his mind and disrupting his logic in ways that even Moriarty hadn't accomplished.

Sherlock climbed the rocky hill by the stream, his paws and muzzle wet from drinking after his hunt. The plunge into the woods hadn't driven logical worries from his mind; instead it reminded him of how he'd found her by the water when they met, and how tonight she had looked into his golden wolf eyes, and still wanted him to hold her.


	8. The Choice

Molly was suffused with nervous energy the following morning. She woke just past dawn, alert and aware of the carts gently rolling past her cottage on the edge of the Village. A cold snap had fallen on the town, and she saw a puff of air when she sat up in bed and exhaled heavily.

Her sleep had been restless; strange visions bled into each other to form one long delirious dream. The last thing she remembered from the nightmarish end, as she lay in bed, was the sensation of teeth burying into her neck and tearing as the world spun around her.

She hurried from bed to the tiny handheld mirror she kept in her trunk. Molly drew out the silver-handled antique that had been her mother's, and inspected her throat. Low on her neck, almost hidden by her hair, was the clear imprint Sherlock had marked with her with in his reckless passion the night before.

She traced the dark red kiss on her throat, and shivered remembering the way he'd pressed her against the tree and slid his hand under her skirt. That, only a moment after declaring he didn't need her anymore. Molly grinned at her reflection, and wondered at the shine in her eyes and the pink in her cheeks. Even her hair looked brighter and richer, the pale brown strands taking on a golden red sheen in the morning light.

He had tried to walk away, and for once, Molly had done the impolite thing, and refused to accept it. She loathed confrontation, but something about Sherlock drove her to speak. Maybe it was that he seemed impervious, and wouldn't be wounded by her comments. Maybe it was that, despite her oddness, he seemed to be attracted to her and wasn't confused by her intellectual passions.

_And he is the oddest man I have ever known. The most fascinating and brilliant, too. But what on earth to do with him? I'll need to see him again, even if he is frightened of what he felt. I need to know what he can learn about the Falling. And if he rejects me like a fool,_ she thought, her confidence faltering _, at least I can still help people. I will always have that._

Molly glanced at herself again in the mirror. The bold gleam in her reflection's eyes was foreign to her, but presented a self that she very much wanted to know more about.

She set aside the mirror, and searched for a clean dress to wear. Soo Lin was an early riser, often finishing hauling clay from the foggy fields even before the farmers had risen to milk the cows. She had a tale to share with her friend, and a few questions of her own for the mysterious potter.

* * *

The town bustled with morning activity by the time Molly hurried along the narrow road to the center of the Village. She carried with her in her basket the painted pots and the silver knife.

The widows clustered around the well as usual, gossiping about the woodsmen who had still not returned from their last trip into the forest. The winter was arriving swifter than the farmers had predicted, and if the men didn't return before the first snowfall, they would be written off for good.

The Village Constable patrolled the lanes, and waved a greeting toward Molly as the lawwoman stopped to chat with crude travelers staying at the inn. They were throwing bread crusts and coffee dregs off the porch and into the street, against regulations. The Village had always been tidy, but with the rise of the strange plague, they were even more vigilant, hoping to remove the source of any vermin that might bring disease in.

"There's a bin right there, lads. There's no excuse for it. Use it, or you'll have to leave, whether or not you already paid for a bed." The Constable displayed her impressive glower at the travelers. The biggest of the men, a hulking mass of muscle with sandy blond hair, sneered at her before scooping the crusts from the ground and tossing them into the bin.

Satisfied, she turned back toward the healer. "Molly!'

"Sally!" She waved back, and crossed the cobblestones, joining the other woman on the creaky porch. "A busy one already?"

"Got a circus coming to town, all sorts gathering from the outer territory to enjoy it. And some of the performers in early are complete sods." Sally tipped her head toward the louts. She pointed her thumb toward a sign tacked to the inn wall. "Good for our pockets, bad for the litter. How are things at the Colony?"

"About the same, except there's a new healer out there. Name's John. A good man, I think. Grandmother could use more food donations, but the patients are…maintaining." Molly scanned the yellowed scroll covered in ornate lettering. "Oh, a festival! That's exciting." Her eyes fell on the title.

_Lupercalia._ She frowned. The eerie word echoed around her mind. It tickled at the edge of familiarity, but she couldn't pin it down. The blond man on the porch roared with laughter at a whispered comment from his companion. She felt the anxious energy that haunted her all morning heighten.

"What does Lupercalia mean?"

"It means a load of bollocks meant to sell more tickets, I imagine." Sally smiled at her, and Molly chuckled politely. "Inn's full, and half the Village is taking in boarders for the next week. Festivities don't even begin for a few days, and petty crime is already up. I'll send word if- _when-_ some tosser gets his head bashed in, in a brawl." The Constable turned back to shout through the inn's door. "Gary! You keep this lot from trashing our homes, y'hear? It's on you."

The burly man behind the inn's counter pretended not to notice, but hunched his shoulders lower and grew very interested in the stack of bills in his hands.

Sally shrugged, and scanned the road again.

"Well, we're in for an interesting week. I'll be seeing you then, Sally." An idea occurred to Molly. "Oh, one more thing- they haven't found those woodsmen yet, have they, the ones who didn't come back last week?"

Sally shook her head. "Henry and his pa? No. To be honest, I don't think we will, when it's been this long. They're either dead or they've run off. Mister Knight had some debts so I wouldn't be surprised. Why do you ask? Have you heard something?" The Constable's sharp brown eyes were suspicious.

"Just a lot of strange sounds in the forests lately when I'm on my way to Grandmother's house. Howls, tracks from large animals. Nothing like I've ever seen. I don't think people should be traveling through the woods if they can help it."

Sally nodded, her gaze thoughtful. "Not a bad idea. Weather's changing; there's always some idiot who gets caught in the snowdrift and I nearly lose my toes, getting them out. But with all these people from the outer lands, I won't be advising people not to travel until this lot are gone."

"Right…" Molly trailed off. She shivered and drew her cloak snugger around her, warding off the chill. The thought of this many people exposed to those massive wild wolves frightened her. The timing of the festival was simply terrible.

"See you at Luper-whatsit then." Sally rolled her eyes at the sign and hopped off the porch, strolling down the lane.

Molly glanced at the sign on the wall, and her eyes landed on a particular phrase. The knot in her belly grew tighter.

" _Fierce creatures."_

* * *

At first light of dawn, Sherlock journeyed to the Crescent Swamp to refill his supply of the gases for his lighting. He begrudgingly acknowledged he was exhausted, but pushed forward, determined to not let anything distract his focus.

The woman had plagued him endlessly during hunt the night before. The physical exertion only increased his need to seek her out and finish what he'd started when he'd taken her in his arms and nearly cut her with his teeth.

Finally, he'd tired himself enough to nap for two hours. Sherlock passed out on the floor and woke up human, scratched and sore all over. The cottage still held Molly's scent, her essence of herbs and apples and woman surrounding him even while he slept by the cold hearth and dreamed. He was relieved he hadn't bothered shifting back and climbing up to the loft. If he had slept among the furs where she had lain, the smell of her would've driven the wolf to her house, his head dropped on his paws submissively at her doorstep. Begging. _Pleading_ for her to let him inside, to keep him close to her.

There was a sizable part of him still drawn to the notion.

Instead he lay stiff on the floor, and cleared his mind quickly as he could when he awoke. He mentally sifted through the evidence collected the day before at the Colony, and constructed a plan of research and examination. The existing information he categorized, sorted, and assessed. Some data he discarded to make room for what he would learn after using his magnifying glass. Once he gathered more gas, he could work for days without needing to pause. When there was work, there was no room for hesitation or hunger or lust or her brown eyes shining for him, making him feel more human than he ever had in his long life.

_More human, and yet more wolf, as well._

The thought was puzzling and irksome. He pushed it away.

The mystery of the Falling would come apart in his hands, he was confident. He just needed more light. Even his wolf vision needed assistance with particles invisible to the naked eye. And so he ran.

When Sherlock returned from the Crescent Swamp, he plunged into work, developing methods of breaking down and comparing the fresh data. The extraordinary tool he had constructed with brass and glass and curves opened up the universe in an entirely new way. The troublesome world around him faded. He sat on his lone chair at the table, peering into the glass, and stayed there for two days.

* * *

Soo Lin's nose wrinkled with distaste the moment Molly entered the potter's shop. She masked her reaction with the impenetrable expression the dark-haired woman often employed.

Molly caught the fleeting look on her friend's face. "What is it?" She set her basket down on the counter, worried she'd offended Soo Lin somehow.

The woman smiled, averting her eyes. "It's nothing. My allergies are acting up today."

"Allergies this time of year? The harvest is long over, and I've never seen you so much as sniffle in the spring willow puff season that makes everyone else's eyes water." Molly bit her lip. "I need to ask you some questions. I'm not quite sure how to say it. But…why did you paint the hex signs on the pots you made for me? Grandmother said they were for warding off evil and magic."

Soo Lin looked relieved. She smiled faintly, and brushed a lock of silky black hair away from her face. "Oh that. An old superstition. My mother used to paint hexes on the clay pots in our house. I don't put much stock in them, but it's just something we did. Where I come from, it's common, mostly for decoration. Is it offensive here? I didn't realize." She wiped a damp cloth over the delicate teapot in her hands.

There was a distance and an evasive tone that put Molly off. Soo Lin was often quiet but this was something else. Were those lines of exhaustion on her friend's face, on the woman who thrived on getting up before dawn to heave buckets of wet clay around so easily?

Concerned, Molly walked around the counter to approach her without the long tabletop and shelves as a barrier between them. As she stepped closer, Soo Lin's eyes widened in alarm and the pot she cradled in her hands clattered to the counter. Her gaze flew to the door, which was still firmly closed.

Soo Lin rushed to Molly and squeezed her shoulders, peering into her face. Her dark eyes were fierce, with a golden shimmer around the blackness of her irises. She sniffed the air, and exhaled slowly.

"Molly, where have you _been?_ You smell like-" She broke off. "You have the knife I gave you, in your basket."

Shaken by Soo Lin's abrupt change of mood, Molly scrambled to collect her thoughts. "Yes, I have it. How did you know? Seems like I've always one step behind people lately."

"Because I can smell the silver. It makes me sneeze. I had it well wrapped when I gave it to you, if you recall." Soo Lin released her shoulders and sat down on the stool behind the counter. She slumped in a graceless fashion unlike her usual poise. She rubbed a hand over her brow. "You know, don't you? About us. I didn't know right away because the silver was overwhelming at first, but now…you smell of him. I can't see the imprint but I can smell it on your neck somewhere. What wolf has covered you in his scent and given you the first mark of change?"

* * *

Soo Lin poured the clear stream of tea into the cup with a trembling hand. She slid the cup on its saucer over to Molly, and sat back down with her own tea.

"I came here to ask about the knife actually." Molly sipped and swallowed the warm liquid. The tea soothed the ball of anxiety that had been gathering in her gut all morning. "Now I think perhaps you should start at the beginning? Please."

Soo Lin stroked the smooth cup with her thumb while she considered her words. "The beginning was so long ago, I don't properly remember it. I was a child in the wood. I had a brother who flew between trees like a spider and we loved each other. Our parents were strong and good, and taught us to walk proudly on two legs and four." She stared into the shallow depths of her cup.

"And then the men who could not change shape peopled the land faster than we could. Mating and breeding is so much easier for humankind. I hoped that we could live in harmony, with our own territories, but there were those who wanted more. Men who began setting traps for wolves in the forests and they didn't care whether it was a wolf or a wolfkind in its teeth. And eventually a faction of wolfkind decided to fight back."

Soo Lin spoke evenly, but her fingers belied her emotions. She picked up the painted medicine pot, and her fingertips restlessly traced the delicate lines of the hex star. "I don't know why they conceived such a plan, when the elders like my parents wished for peace, but the angry wolves lashed out and killed an important man's child. And that prince rained hell on the wolfkind for years. We lived far to the North then, and I thought the madness wouldn't touch us, this ridiculous war that some young wolf conceived, but I was wrong." Her fingers stopped, and tears trickled from her eyes as she looked up. "It stopped suddenly one spring, but the damage was done."

She set the pot down on the counter carefully and sat back.

Molly sensed the truth, and forced herself to say it. "Your parents."

"Caught and slain when they were on a hunt. They always hunted alone once we were grown; it was their special time together. Humans traded their pelts for bounties. My brother went mad. I don't know that there's anything left in him but hatred."

"Oh Soo Lin." She didn't know what to say. She'd lost her parents and then her husband, but their slow, natural deaths had been anticipated and mentally prepared for. The horror of what her friend described so evenly tore at her heart. She picked up the medicine pot and touched the star. "Your mother used to do this. And you did it for me."

"She said it never hurt to have an extra dose of protection on your side. Magic. That even if you didn't believe in it, it might believe in you." Soo Lin laughed bitterly, and more tears slid down her porcelain cheeks. "It was so long ago that I can barely summon her face some days, even though Father used to say we were two peas in a pod. So long ago, but the effects of what dark men and wolves did are still haunting us. There are good and evil in both beings."

"I know," Molly replied, remembering the hungry creatures that had stalked her in the forest. She slid her hand under her cloak and rubbed at the tender place where Sherlock had nipped her throat. "Soo Lin, did you ever meet a wolf named Sherlock?"

"No," she responded, pulling a handkerchief from her apron. She quickly swiped away the tear tracks. Her grief seemed to recede as she seized on the practical issue at hand. "That's him, then? The one who left that mating bite on your body? The name being unknown to me doesn't mean a lot, we tend to change names every hundred years or so. But his scent on you is entirely unfamiliar."

"Yes, his name is Sherlock. He lives in the woods near Grandmother's house, and he's going to help study the Falling and look for a cure. He's a chemist," she said proudly.

The rush of information elicited no more than a raised eyebrow from Soo Lin. The corner of her mouth twitched. "Well, a chemist. That is unusual for a wolf. Not the sort of species that relies on scientific methods for the most part. Artisans and entertainers, craftsmen and hunters, mostly. It isn't too late, you should know."

"Too late for what?" Molly's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

"He bit you, yes, but you didn't bleed. The process, the awareness of wolf has begun, but you aren't one of us yet. You can stop it if you want to, or you can pursue it, but it's a difficult road to walk. You have a choice. I never did." Soo Lin regarded the healer seriously.

Molly stared back. "I can be like him? Like you?"

"Oh, I see." Soo Lin's eyes narrowed and Molly saw a flash of anger in her gaze. "I assumed he explained. Biting you without discussing it first is rude, and a violation of our traditions. It's a gift you may choose to accept. Forcing himself on someone is-"

"No! No, it wasn't like that. Not at all. It was wonderful, I didn't want him to stop." Molly felt her cheeks warm again. "I mean it hurt a bit, but a _good_ hurt except for a second and if he hadn't run off, I would've brought him home and then introduced you two today, and we could all be having a laugh about this wolf business right now." She sighed and cringed at her lame attempt at a joke. Soo Lin shook her head, used to Molly's awkward humor. "Sorry, this is all overwhelming. I'm trying. I just need a moment. Thank you though."

"For what?"

"For telling me everything. For helping me understand why he ran away after he left this mark. For sharing your story and for not pushing me away, and for being my friend. Everything has been sheer madness lately and my head is spinning. But I'm beginning to understand the pieces. I just have to bring it all together now." She smiled, but Soo Lin didn't return it.

She crossed the room and opened the shutters. "I should tell you. There have been wolves in the Village the past couple days. It happens once in a while- I avoid meeting them, but I catch their scent as they pass through town. But there was a wolf the other night, a white-haired man who tried to bespell me." She paused and opened her mouth as though there was more to say, but she stopped. "It's too much to explain now. You've got a lot to think about. But I'm going to have to insist you bring this wolf to the Village. Can't be trusting just any fellow with my friend. If he's a bad mate, I'll sniff him out quickly."

Molly giggled. "That's handy. Perhaps we can have a bite of dinner tomorrow or the day after, before the festival? Would be nice to talk some more. Maybe explain about the silver knife."

"That's a simple one," Soo Lin said, closing the shutters. "Not much can sicken wolfkind, but silver is poison. The smell of it makes me ill. Cut a wolf with a silver-coated blade, and it'll poison their blood, a slow ugly death. Strike them in the heart with the knife, and death will be quick and assured. I gave it to you because I've been meaning to give you the blade for a year, once I learned you kept your blade close for safety as well as function. It was hard to arrange an 'accident' that would give me an excuse to replace your knife."

Molly clapped a hand over her mouth and laughed. "Oh you liar! You broke it on purpose. That's funny."

An uncharacteristic grin spread over the potter's face. "It was. And yes, I lied. I'm not sorry. Once I knew you had the potential to be changed into a wolf, that you were 'of the blood' as we say, I wanted you to have protection. It was all I could offer without exposing myself." She sat back down on the stool beside Molly and smiled warmly. "I just wanted you to have a choice."

* * *

The caravan rolled along the road steadily. The journey was slow, with several horses gone on ahead with the advance men of the Lupercalia. The scarlet, gold and emerald-painted wagons bounced over the packed dirt path, jarring the performers who prepared for the coming festival in their moving home.

The Professor perched on the bench next to the driver, facing the back while he skinned an apple and tossed the peels into the cages at his feet.

"You know the problem with these villages? The real problem. It's not intelligence. Certainly none of that here. It's not strength. It's sheer dumb stubbornness. They don't know when it would be easier to flop on their backs and just _die_ already. So we're going to help figure out…it's time. This place in particular is surviving far too long. Why is that? Would you say that your village is extraordinarily stupid, Henry, or about average?"

The young man in the cage scrounged around the filthy floor, grabbing at the scraps of fruit. He was too starved to be embarrassed. His entire body was covered in grime, and the bite marks on his neck and thighs looked raw and inflamed. The occupant of the cage next to Henry's groaned as they drove over a large bump, and his head smashed against the iron bars.

The young man spoke in a ragged rasp. "I dunno, Professor. Please let me out. I swear, I won't strike anyone. I was just upset. About my pa. I can't take it. Just let me out, alright? I promise."

"You were given a great gift, Henry. Your father was not worthy. Wrong blood. Must've gotten yours from your mummy. Humans who can't be like us are only good for one thing. _Dinner."_

Henry's eyes watered. "They shouldn't have done that to him." His face twisted in rage. "You shouldn't have done that." He shoved his face against the iron, and his fist shot out between the cage's bars, grasping and stabbing at Moriarty's legs.

The Professor snickered and kicked Henry in the nose in a blur of motion too far for human eyes. The youth fell back, blood streaming his nose.

"Getting hungrier, aren't you? Starvation has a way of sharpening priorities. In another day, you won't care about poor old pa. You'll want a scrap of his meat yourself. When the Lupercalia begins, and we set you loose, you'll be nothing but a set of teeth tearing into children for a tender morsel. You'll _adore_ it." The Professor smiled lovingly and closed his eyes, savoring the vision.

The man in the other cage growled softly, still curled in a miserable ball in the corner. "Leave the lad be. Your games aren't fit for man nor wolf alike."

Moriarty's eyes snapped open. " _Ohhhh_ is that so? Delighted to have you rejoin the conversation. Take note, Henry: being stubborn only keeps people alive longer for more pain. Like him. Three years in the cage, an animal like all of us, and he persists in thinking he can give people orders."

He picked the last of the apple from the core and tossed it in the shrubbery alongside the road. "Even he can't resist the hunger. His time in charge is done. But I have enjoyed toying with you. I owe you so much." Moriarty hopped off the bench and knelt by the cage. His electric gaze captured the man's, and he crumbled to the floor of the cage in a daze. Moriarty sighed, and chided him softly.

"Stubborn stupid prince. Don't you know I'm never going to let you die?"


	9. Lupercalia Begins

The sun rose over the thatched rooftops and bare trees, and the Village awoke to a bright, cold morning. Farmers trudged to their barns, and the merchants shivered as they unlocked their shops. The people bustled through the streets, sniffling and complaining about their aching joints. The widows clustered around the town well had to crack layers of ice in the buckets before fetching water. However, despite the cold snap and the nip of winter in the air, excitement still rippled through the townspeople. Everyone within thirty miles would likely be in town by nightfall, because the carnival was coming.

In the town square, the festival's advance men hammered together a dais and rows of benches beneath a rough shelter. Campfires burned around them, warming the workers and the locals passing by gawk and gossip.

In her cottage on the edge of the Village, Molly woke up. Her body still hummed with the restless energy that had plagued her since the wolf had marked her with a kiss.

 _A mating bite, Soo Lin called it._ The memory of Sherlock sinking his teeth into her made her burn with want in a way her husband never had. Delirious dreams of claws and dark strangers plagued her sleep. But Molly was distracted by the weight of Soo Lin's story, the incredible loss and grief. Wolves were pack animals, yet the black-haired woman had persevered and created a quiet and safe corner of the world for herself.

_I would loathe humans if they'd done to me what they did to Soo Lin's family. The kind of strength it takes to forgive and let go of the hate in one's heart…She's amazing. Rather like Sherlock._

_But how long can a creature be alone before it goes mad or dies?_ she thought, pondering the sprawling years of loneliness that had shaped her best friend and the man she suspected she was falling in love with. Her mind churned with the overwhelming information and the seismic shift in her simple life. Everything was changing, taking a new shape to cover the cracks. An inexorable sense of anticipation filled her as Molly dressed and prepared for her morning rounds.

She had stepped out of her cottage and taken only a few steps when a single snowflake landed on the tip of Molly's nose.

* * *

It was only when Sherlock stood up and then immediately fell to the floor that he realized he hadn't eaten or sleep in several days. The sun rose, reminding him another day had passed but he didn't bother adding up the sunsets when the mystery was unraveling before his eyes.

The glass eye ( _got to come up with a better name for it_ , he reminded himself) displayed the structure of the minute tissues that composed all matter. He had been testing it on leaves for months, and found the shapes of human tissues to be not that dissimilar. Variations in geometry, of course, but the base substance of creation wasn't nearly as different as the alchemists had supposed.

With the samples from the patients and the environment of the Colony, it took only a few days to break through and answer the question of the Falling. The problem was that he had managed on his own for so long, he'd forgotten how much easier it was when there were others to bounce ideas off or manage the annoying interpersonal aspect of gathering information. All he needed was minor assistance in accessing the materials and then everything was simple.

Sitting on the floor and stretching his limbs, Sherlock was forced to acknowledge the truth: that without the urging from Molly and the practical help from John Watson, he would be still tearing his hair out over the stupid plague.

Which as it turned out, was not a plague at all.

He had thought he would be instantly bored the moment he identified the similarity between a particular plant that grew everywhere in the forests of the island, and a heavy concentration of it in the water taken from the Colony's well. _Nashia._

He'd nagged John into securing samples of his wastes, along with Angelo and Grandmother for a comparison of the non-afflicted residents. The healer obliged after threatening to throttle him if he was messing about as a joke.

After that, it was obvious. Molly's grandmother and the two men lived on the outskirts of the Colony and used the same stream he did for fetching water. The residents were quarantined and forced to use only the well on the hill. And wells were so easy to tamper with.

 _Classic siege strategy, really._ _No wonder Angelo got better and survived the Falling after he moved out of the Village. I'll wager he was using a well in town, like most would._

No, he wasn't bored yet. The pattern uncovered yet another mystery and highlighted why the wolfkind strength could also be a weakness.

Nashia root was incredibly common and harmless in tiny quantities. So common he hadn't blinked an eye when a piece of the root's flowering tip was caught in the strips of Molly's basket. If a human ate an entire root, it would make one dizzy, fatigued, and nauseous. He had never encountered a person who ate _many_ nashia roots or drank its extract, slowly over a length of time. He hadn't recognized the symptomology. Why would he? Nashia had no effect on wolves and therefore was of little concern to him. The smell of it barely even registered to him, it was so inert.

Sherlock shook the stiffness out of his arms and paced around the cottage, running his hands through his hair. Suddenly ravenous, he dug through his limited food stores and crammed the last strips of jerky in his mouth.

_Extract the toxic essence of nashia- free and plentiful. Dump it in the wells in the Village and even at the Colony, which as I can vouch for, is easy to penetrate. It worked in other villages up north and in the east._

So the exciting question now was, why bother poisoning everyone? Wouldn't a massacre be just as effective and much less time-consuming than inflicting slow death on the island's human inhabitants?

_Someone wanted them to hurt._

* * *

Night fell. Torches blazed throughout the Village, carried by the people or tucked into nooks along the dark paths. The snow fell gently, melting as it touched the busy roads. The clouds obscured the stars but a bright full moon lit the way for the travelers making their way to the town square.

"Is your grandmother going to be able to make it?" Soo Lin asked Molly, joining her on the cobblestone path. She wore a thick cloak, and her pale fingers were covered in black leather gloves, but the healer understood now why her friend never shivered in the wind.

"No, she sent word- there's a sickness going around. Nothing drastic, but it can be much worse for someone who already has the Falling. It's best she stays there and I don't bring any colds from the people here right now." Molly tucked her hands under her red cloak. They walked in companionable silence the rest of the way.

The noise from the festival could be heard from streets away. Strange music filled the air, almost drowning the wild laughter from the revelers. Beer and liquor flowed, the innkeepers pouring glasses of ale as quickly as they could manage. Gary waved to them from the porch where he had set up a makeshift bar counter. He grinned with every fistful of coins dropped into his cashbox.

The Constable strolling by tipped her hat, before turning to bellow at two drunken youths vomiting behind the stables.

She called back to the women, "Hope you brought your stitches, Molly, because some heads are going to get cracked open tonight for sure. Bloody festivals."

Molly laughed, and nodded. "I'm well prepared, Sally." Under her cloak, she stroked the smooth silver blade tucked into her belt. She glanced over at Soo Lin, and was startled to see the woman staring off into the darkness beyond the town square, with a frightened look on her face.

"Soo Lin? What's the matter?"

She shook her head, her shiny black hair falling over her face like a curtain. She began walking again, and Molly followed. "Just…I've been waiting for something for a long time. You know that feeling, when you're dreading it but it's a relief when it finally happens?"

Molly reached out and squeezed her arm. Soo Lin smiled at her briefly, but the light never reached her eyes.

"I'm really glad I met you. It helps me remember to not fall into the trap my brother did, believing all humans were hateful. That we couldn't change the world for the better. I've lived a long time and it's good to have a friend. To still believe in something, in the end." She turned her face away back toward the darkness between the buildings, beyond the center where the carnival was still assembling.

"Why are you say-"

"Look, it's Michael Stamford, coming this way," Soo Lin interrupted. "Perhaps now is the right time to let him down gently?"

Molly looked over and groaned to see her friend was correct. The apothecary lumbered toward them, waving happily. "Oh heavens, Soo Lin, I don't know if tonight is the best time." She turned back to Soo Lin, only to find that the woman had vanished into the night, leaving only a few footprints in the thin layer of snow on the ground.

* * *

His eyes were inky black like his sister's, but flecked with yellow when the change was creeping in. When the rage rose in him, his irises were a shining gold that hurt to look upon.

His eyes glimmered in the darkness and Soo Lin knew that her brother had come for her. Even after years apart, his familiar scent, so like her own, was easy to pick out in a crowd. He watched her from a distance, slipping between a livery stable and the butcher shop. His eyes fell on Molly Hooper, and then shot back to his sister, and the threat was clear.

_Leave her and come to me, or she'll die with you._

Her brother always was ruthless, even in childhood games.

Grateful for the impending intrusion of Stamford, she distracted Molly, and _blurred_ into the crowd. She hadn't used the ability of going unseen in decades, but found the skill there in the recesses of her mind. She slipped through the beer-sodden crowd, and into the alleyway where he had stood.

Breathing deeply, she stepped into the dark way that led through the square and into the woods. Did he want her to join him there? Would there be any discussion or just his teeth tearing into her throat?

A fleeting memory of her young brother spinning through the trees like he was weightless took hold of her. Soo Lin's throat felt tight and aching. She glanced back toward the crowd, and took another step in.

 _Run,_ her gut told her. Go somewhere where they can't find you. But she was so tired of running. And everywhere she had roamed in the last hundred years, sooner or later she had to leave when her unaging strangeness became obvious.

_No more running._

A shadow fell on her, and the light from the torches in the square was blotted out. The alley fell into complete darkness. She turned slowly, knowing even before she looked that it was the end.

"Xu Guan."

"That hasn't been my name for a long time." His voice was deeper than she remembered. "I'm Zhi Zhu, the spider."

"A name given to you in love, and you hold it up as a badge of hate, your reputation as a killer." The first tears spilled from her eyes.

His face was still and impenetrable, his acquired mask as convincing as the one Soo Lin wore every day.

"We need you." He blinked and the harsh gold of his eyes dimmed. "I need you. Come back with me, where you'll belong. Help us take back the island. We were here long before humans."

"It's in the past; it can't be undone. And I am not running. I am not weak." Her eyes filled again, and her fists clenched.

"Then you've decided." He nodded and took a step toward her. "Just so. I suppose it's fitting, family should be together at the end."

Soo Lin looked up at the sky, through the narrow slot between the buildings, and she smiled at the moon. A snowflake drifted down and kissed her cheek. She had hidden from her brother for far too long, she realized now. "Yes. We should be."

His eyes blazed.

Claws lengthened, and then there was blood on the wall.

* * *

Molly scanned the crowded square, squinting to make out faces through the bonfires in the fresh-dug pits. The lurid sounds of the festival had grown louder, with a speeding fiddle accompanying her journey through the throng. The festival's main events hadn't even been started yet, but the warm-up musicians and taranga dancers were whipping the villagers into a frenzy.

"Molly! Hi! Molly. It's me, wait up." Michael's genial voice cut through the din, but she ignored him and continued searching for her friend. Michael meant well, but once he began chattering, there was no stopping him. She pushed her way through the stumbling men and found a clear space to breathe, beside the inn. She drummed her fingers on her legs, wondering if she should find the Constable and ask for help finding Soo Lin.

"Something's got you worried, love?" A lilting voice cut through her worried thoughts. Surprised someone had snuck up on her, Molly took in the stranger.

He must've come in with the festival, she realized. No one in the Village would wear such a luxurious coat. The emerald green satin covered him from shoulders to knees, and the gold thread embroidery was lavish. His black breeches were indecently snug above the knee-high boots he wore. He was freshly shaven, and his dark eyes reflected the flickering fires. He wasn't tall, but something about his presence made her want to take a step back. He smoothed a wayward lock of black hair from his forehead, and smiled.

"Apologies, miss, for startling you. Terribly _crude_ of me. Allow me to introduce myself properly. This is my merry band of travelers and our humble show." He extended a hand, and Molly found herself accepting, slipping her fingers into his tight grasp. His grin widened, and he inclined his head.

"My name is Professor James Moriarty, and I am happy to give you, my dear, a most personal welcome to the _Lupercalia_."

* * *

Sherlock dashed through the woods, glad he'd remembered to put clothing on before heading to the Village. The task of locating Molly to give her the news about the Falling would be twice as hard if he accosted villagers without trousers on. His cloak flapped behind him, but he hadn't bothered with gloves or with lacing his shirt properly. There were only so many conventions he could handle at one time.

He became aware, as he pounded his way over the wet dirt path, that the scent of other wolves was growing stronger. He had known some were about, obviously, but there were far more smells than he had encountered with the three wolves he had fought. He picked up on at least a dozen separate wolfkind scents, and another piece of the puzzle fell into place.

_I let him cow and distract me again from his real purpose. Moriarty._

The scents almost all lead straight to the Village. Logical processing and triumph over his medical discovery fell away, and the only thing left was the unerring and brutal instinct to get to the Village before someone hurt his mate.

 _She's not my mate_ , he corrected himself as he ran.

 _She will be_ , the wolf retorted.

 _You're an idiot_ , Sherlock thought.

 _Yes we are,_ the wolf agreed.

* * *

Time and faces blurred. Nothing was in focus except for the magnetic eyes capturing hers.

"Your eyes, they're so big." Molly heard a trace of slur in her words, and shook her head. The world spun and she leaned back against the wall to brace herself.

 _Wall? When did I get this close to a wall?_ She looked up and noticed they were standing a half dozen paces from where they had been a moment ago. They were near the back wall of the inn, far from the other villagers.

He laughed, and she realized she'd spoken aloud. He leaned in close, his lips hovering over hers. "Time flies when we're enjoying ourselves, doesn't it. And my eyes are big because there is so much to _see_. Especially _here."_ One hand gripped her waist, and the other cupped her cheek. He tipped her head to the left, exposing the soft column of her throat.

Her mind in a fog, she complied with his maneuvering. Molly's hands hung limply at her side and she thought vaguely, _I shouldn't be here. I don't know you. Why – how- is this happening?_

His black eyes seemed to expand in her vision, the midnight irises of his gaze bleeding into yellow and changing into shiny gold coins she couldn't look away from.

And then she knew.

"Wolf," she sighed.

" _Ohhh_ he told you! That's nice. That's _good_. Saves me the hassle of explaining." He ran his fingers over her neck, pushing back the hood of her red cloak to press his thumb against her pulse. "You know, I thought you were a passable potential wolf of the blood when I first spotted you in the Village, on my scouting missing a while back. But you could also have been lunch." He leaned and sniffed her skin. "Mmm, roses. Apples. Rosemary and verbena. You smell delightful. Anyway, I thought you were _alright_ then, but now knowing what I can take from Sherlock when I take you. Oh that's even _better."_

He closed his eyes and smiled warmly. "Losing you, seeing you as my mate, it will drive him mad. He'll finally be the wolf I always knew he could be. Wonderful."

The fog lifted with his gaze broken, and Molly blinked hard. His eyes seemed to recede and shrink. There was something she could do, she remembered now. "I don't…I don't want that." Her hand fluttered up and she weakly felt around under her cloak, for her belt.

"Are you looking for this?" Moriarty's eyes snapped open and he produced her silver knife from his pocket. "Yes, the scent of silver is impossible to miss. Disgusting, really-"

"Molly! There you are! What are you up to there?" From the front of the inn, Michael Stamford approached them and Molly could have wept, she was so grateful for his persistence.

Moriarty's gaze flew to the other man, and his eyes flashed a furious copper before bleeding back to his normal dark brown color. The knife disappeared into his pocket and he stepped back from Molly.

"Just getting acquainted is all. No law against that, is there, lad?" His voice was soft but the threatening tone was impossible to miss.

Stamford reached for Molly's hand and he pulled her toward him and back toward the crowd. "If it's alright with you, Molly's needed. Someone's gotten a terrible splinter from the firewood. Come on now, Molly." With his hand on her back, he guided her back to the town square, leaving an amused Moriarty behind.

A hulking blond man stepped out of the darkness. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"Eh, no need. He won't be leaving here alive tonight anyway. I'm going to rip his innards out through his bellybutton, and make him _chew_ them before I tear his throat out." He shrugged. "Besides, who's got the time? We've a show to start. But not you, Moran. You're needed somewhere else tonight."

* * *

Sherlock's nose was overwhelmed with the stench of the Village. The people pressed around him in the streets, their smell confusing and disgusting him. Some of them clearly never bathed, and others were drenched in liquor. He caught a whiff of Molly's scent down one small road and the noise in the distance was enough to tell him he should continue that way. If there was a major event happening in town, she would be there and if something was happening, the wolves were probably responsible.

The rising strings of fiddle music reached his ears. He scanned the clusters of people, but stopped when he spotted the dais in the center of the square. The benches were filled with audience members, and the torches burning around the square made his night vision better. Across the crowd, beyond the well, he caught a glimpse of a familiar red cloak.

And a man with his arm around her.

A growl poured from Sherlock's throat and his muscles bunched, ready to spring, before he realized that the man was human. And that Molly was staggering.

Uncaring in his panic, he sprinted across the cobblestones, oblivious to the stares of the townspeople. The Constable eyed him suspiciously, and the taranga dancer swirling her skirts around enchantingly paused in her routine to watch him pass.

He brushed Stamford's hands off Molly and pulled her into his arms. Still foggy, she peered up at him and smiled. "Sherlock? You came back. You're not upset? You ran away from me. Ooof. My head hurts." She rubbed her temples, and Sherlock squeezed her tight against his chest.

The other man stared, his gentle eyes wide and surprised.

"Who the hell are you and what happened to her?" Sherlock snapped at him. The stink of Moriarty was all over her cloak.

His eyebrows went up in disapproval. "Stamford is my name. A friend of Molly's. One of them Lupercalia folk tried to take advantage. Happens in other towns, I've heard, so I got suspicious when I saw that fellow leading her behind the inn. Molly's a proper sort, she wouldn't be going willingly."

Sherlock thought of Molly moaning for him with his teeth in her neck, and wondered if Stamford would consider that proper. He tamped down his furious instinct to shove aside any rival man. The fool was trying to help; doubtless he didn't know he could've gotten both he and Molly killed.

_And he saved her from Moriarty when you were too late. That fool saved your mate._

Sherlock swallowed hard and kissed her forehead. He plunked her down on a bench, and ignored the defensive itch that told him other wolves were about. "I know what's causing the Falling. It's the wells. Nashia, actually, but in massive doses in the wells. Probably in liquid extracted form, since even dolts like these people would undoubtedly notice large deposits of root in your buckets. It's not plague, it's poison."

"What? Are you certain?" Stamford's mouth dropped open. Molly's brow wrinkled, trying to process the news.

"Yes that's the good news. The bad news is there is no cure. Treat the symptoms as you have been but the body has to rid itself of the toxin gradually, with fresh water from uncontaminated sources. Some people will still die. It can't be helped." Sherlock shrugged. "They poisoned the villages all over the islands, and kept travelling around and circling back to sneak into towns to make sure everyone _stayed_ ill. To keep people weak. To hurt and control them." He glanced at the round-faced man, who was dumbfounded by the explanation.

Impatiently, Sherlock added, "I can see you're a respected apothecary here, judging by your thumb. Close the wells. I would guess the one right here," he said pointing, "Is the major source."

Stamford nodded. "Yes, most use that well. Only a few cottages have their own wells. I do, Molly does, some farms…but the center of the Falling was always here in town. Dammit." Realization dawned in Stamford's face.

"Soo Lin uses the Village center well," Molly mumbled. She rubbed her eyes, but her voice was stronger when she spoke. "Why didn't she notice? My friend, she's…like you," she said hesitantly. "I wanted you to meet her, but I can't find her now."  
"It doesn't affect us." His mind raced, adding in the information that there was a wolf living in town and Molly knew her. She called her _friend._ That would explain one of the female scents he had come across, but not all of them. "It would be like adding a teaspoon of salt to a huge cauldron of chicken soup. Wouldn't even register the taste."

A horn blared, cutting through the conversation. Everyone in the audience turned to the source; the trumpeter stood on the dais, just behind a slender man in a brilliant green coat.

* * *

"Good evening, everyone. I have the honor and privilege to be your guide this evening. You may call me the Professor. We were going to let you fine people enjoy the complimentary dancers and music a bit longer, but the weather has turned, so we're going to speed things up a bit. Can't have you good citizens out in the snow, catching your death, can we." The dark-haired man grinned charmingly, and his gaze wandered the rows of people.

His eyes fell on Sherlock, and the false smile fell away. Sherlock's eyes burned into him, the wolf who had torn apart his existence for the sheer fun of chaos and rebellion.

The Professor strolled down the steps and through the aisle that cut the rows in half. He winked at a giggling widow, and continued walking, assessing and evaluating each row of villagers.

"We welcome you all to the Lupercalia, and thank you kindly for your courtesies. What is Lupercalia, you ask? A magic incantation? A woman, perhaps?" An obscene catcall was shouted out. "No, nothing so tame and powerless." He spun around and jogged back up the steps. He lifted his arms high, spread-wide and paused.

The excited murmuring in the audience ceased. Everyone watched, and waited.

The Professor crooked a finger to someone offstage, and his men sprang into action, hoisting huge cages draped in blankets onto the dais.

The murmuring returned, with more whispers of speculation. The cages were silent.

"We promised you strongmen, and fire-breathers. You were told of my small hypnotic amusements, and of games and music. But most of all, we promised you fierce creatures." He dropped his arms and ambled over to the cages, resting his palm atop one. He patted the blanked, and turned his mesmerizing gaze back to the audience.

"In ancient times, when this island was ruled by creatures far greater than simple _men_ , there was a festival, a time of ritual and blood. Evil was punished with the celebration of the Lupercalia. Well, evil times have fallen on this land, haven't they." His pointed tone made his reference to the Falling clear. "In the time of the Lupercalia, spirits were purified and the land was made fertile again with a great rising, a cleansing of the mind with song and merriment and dance. And so we bring that fine tradition to you, and hope you may find some comfort in the return of the old ways. And so, let's get on with the show."

He knelt by the cage, and without introduction, yanked off the fabric covering it. The audience gasped, as a filthy man clad only in breeches was revealed. He cringed from the sudden light, blocking his eyes with his hands.

"Oi! That's just a man. Is that supposed to be clever?" The Constable's testy voice carried over the audience. "Let him out!"

The audience rumbled in agreement, disturbed at the strange turn of events.

Sherlock's mouth opened in shock, but then clapped shut. His mind recovered quickly as always, and he held Molly's hand tight, waiting to see the Professor's next move.

"What is it?" she whispered.

"It's him. The Prince Llewellyn, still alive," Sherlock said coolly. "He was of the blood, but he made me promise to never turn him. I was happy to agree. I suppose Moriarty thought it was a fitting punishment. Or perhaps it's why he chose to attack the Prince's child to begin with- I was never certain."

A morbid suspicion about Moriarty's exposure of wolfkind crept into Sherlock's mind. There could be only one reason he would do it so publicly.

If he didn't intend for there to be any survivors.

Moriarty smiled at the man in the cage and slid a hand through the bars to squeeze his knee. His eyes locked with that of the man in the cage, and the prisoner flopped onto his back shrieking. The audience began to stand up and shout. The Constable hurried to the front and was arguing with a strongman blocking her way.

The silver-haired man in the cage shouted and thrashed, and after a chaotic minute, _changed_. It wasn't the fluid natural shift that gave Sherlock a pleasant sense of freedom and stretching. It looked as though his bones were being shoved around under his skin in the forced shapechange.

Before the horrified villagers, the man's body reconfigured, grey hair sprouting all over while his mouth lengthened into a muzzle, drooling and snarling. The newly formed wolf jumped to his feet, and snapped at the Professor's fingers.

Moriarty giggled and pulled his hand from the cage. "See? Promised you a good show, didn't we. A genuine wolfman like the legends speak of. Safely encaged in iron bars, for your viewing pleasure!"

Stunned, the audience gawked and worse, began to laugh. "Incredible!" "Imagine that!" "'S got to be a trick." "Bloody hell, look at that."

"You'll _all_ get a close look at a wolfman, free of charge! That's right. This particular wolfman was a true danger to society." Moriarty nodded emphatically to the crowd who was simmering with elation at the unexpectedly true magics. The Professor gestured to a handful of people from the first row, waving them onto the stage to examine the creature for fraud.

"That's right, he is the genuine article. By giving him employment here in the Lupercalia, he has a purpose in life. We found the monster a few years ago, posing as a constable at a village in the north we visited. Infiltrated the law, the diabolical killer."

The wolf growled at him, threw back his muzzle and howled in despair. Moriarty looked at the wild animal, shaking his head in exaggerated sorrow.

"He kept moving from town to town, killing God knows how many good citizens, and changing his name over and over to avoid detection. When we found the pathetic creature, he was going by the name of Lestrade."


	10. Lupercalia Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite bloody with some violence, so fair warning.  
> Lexieken has created more art for the story; check it out here http://artbylexie.tumblr.com/post/40905819602/no-seriously-if-youre-not-reading-petra-todds

The music of the Lupercalia grew louder and more savage, the horns and strings clashing and bleeding into the night. Revelers meandered through the muddy streets, some bored with the theatrical preliminaries and finding the tavern's ale more entertaining. No one paid any attention to Jefferson Hope when he moved between the stumbling groups. The snow fell lightly, sparkling on his vest before melting away.

The white-haired man whistled as he strolled down the busy cobblestoned road, following the scent of the Spider. Zhi Zhu's scent was powerful and unique, like moss and oranges, with traces of vetiver and the juniper that grew wild in the northern mountains. It was easy to track the Spider even in the Village that stank of low humanity.

 _Was I ever this pathetic?_ Hope wondered. _No. I was always better, smarter. Meant for something more._

He searched until the trail grew stronger and twisted together with the odor of another wolf- female and known to Hope.

"The bitch," he cursed, remember the beautiful woman who'd humiliated him on his trip to the Village when he'd last poisoned the town well. How Moriarty had snickered when he admitted to Zhi Zhu what occurred when he visited the man's sister.

The Spider had merely smiled, looking almost proud.

"No matter," Moriarty said when he was finished giggling. "She'll either die or she'll join the fold. Problem solved. I'd remove your windpipe for such a failure, Hope, but we need every wolf for the Lupercalia. Be glad our numbers are so low, or else you would be _breakfast_."

The Professor's lips curled in a grin then but his eyes were hard and night black.

Hope hustled down the street, following the path of the siblings' odors until they led him down a narrow alleyway just off the main square. The scent of his pack touched his nose, but he ignored it, hearing the trumpeter sound off. Moriarty's precious _Lupercalia_ was beginning.

He scratched his head and stepped cautiously into the dark alley. His pupils dilated and yellow bled through his normal pale irises. His vision shifted and he saw clearly in the dimness.

Splatters of drying blood were smeared over the wall to his right. The smell of Zhi Zhu and his sister was overpowering. Huge paws had dragged a trail down the alley and into the trees beyond it. Snow coated the ground thickly enough to show pink blotches, and a pool of blood sinking into the wet grass.

 _She died fighting_ , Hope thought with a smirk _. I wish I'd seen it. Maybe he'll let me have a taste of her blood before we toss her carcass._

With that in mind, he strode cheerfully out of the narrow passage and scanned the area with a sniff. Before he could process it, a gurgling cry was heard behind the pine trees to his left. He heard one strong heartbeat, and one weak fluttery pulse.

Hope dashed over to the pile of fur he spotted beyond the bushes. He squinted and frowned.

The coloring of the wolves was identical, rich grey fur that glistened even in the darkness. Limbs tangled and bent painfully, with scarlet splattered across their bodies. Hope smelled torn flesh and the delicious, incomparable tang of arterial blood pumping into the air. He waited, and the faint heartbeat stopped.

Hope grinned.

The massive furry bodies on the ground blurred and shifted, until they lay nude in the grass, dusted with snow and mud and pine needles. Soo Lin's raven hair twisted around her body, draping low over her breasts and back. Her now-human hands cradled her brother's face.

Zhi Zhu's eyes were half-open, and beneath the woman's hands, red poured from the wolf's throat. It splashed down the Spider's chest and over Soo Lin's body until she was covered in it.

As Hope watched in horror, Soo Lin's hand twitched and caressed her brother's cheek. Her fingers skimmed over his eyelids, closing them. A ragged whisper cut through the silence.

_"Goodnight, Xu Guan."_

Fear ripped through the white-haired man and he staggered backward. Soo Lin's head turned and her eyes captured his.

They shone brilliantly like gold, and at once, his mind was locked, squeezed in a vice from which there was no escaping.

The woman shook off her brother's arm, brushed a smear of blood off her cheek, and stood.

Hope blinked, and she was standing before him, cloaked only in long silky hair with her hands shifting into claws.

When she spoke her voice was rough as though she'd been choked, but it was strong nonetheless.

"I told you not to return."

 _This can't happen,_ Jefferson Hope thought weakly as his mind slipped away from him, crushed under her power. The world spun around him. _I am better than her, I am better than this. I'm a genius, you are nothing, you are…_

And then he was drowning inside her.

When her claws found his throat, he barely even felt it.

* * *

When Soo Lin walked into the alleyway, she had never expected to come out. The centuries of fleeing had stripped away most of the joy of living. The guilt that she survived while her brother murdered alongside Moriarty plagued her.

In that last bleak moment when she looked up at the sky, she thought of her family and understood what she had to do.

_It should be me. I hid from him, but we should be together at the end. It was cowardly to hope someone else would take care of him._

Zhi Zhu was her Spider, the boy who flew between trees, but Soo Lin was always gifted at laying low and taking people unaware.

When her brother shifted to wolf, there was only a split second of regret before she flowed to her own wolf form, and gouged his belly while he leapt to attack from above. They thrashed and rolled and he dragged her down the alley into the open grass. He'd hoped to finish it there without obstruction, she sensed, but instead he slid on the wet grass, his paws mired in the snowy mud. In a last desperate attempt to save himself from her unexpected resistance, Zhi Zhu threw her against the tree and jumped after her to finish it.

He found her teeth and claws waiting, even as her own wounds gushed blood.

Xu Guan has been dead for centuries, she admitted to herself at last. Zhi Zhu was the ghost of a boy killed by hatred.

Hatred caused by Moriarty, she remembered. Soo Lin cleared her head and tried to think calmly, though her veins surged with the vicious energy and thrill of battle.

 _It all ends tonight_ , she promised herself. In the distance, she heard the music playing and the crowd's roar growing.

Soo Lin tugged on the clothing she had stripped from Hope's corpse, ignoring the aching and bleeding wounds all over her body.

Step by agonizing step, she trudged through the alley, back toward the square.

 _I've done what I can in removing these two,_ she thought fervently. _Pray to the gods it's enough because I don't know if I can help you anymore, Molly._

* * *

The forcibly transformed wolf yipped and howled from within its cage, and the audience laughed nervously.

"Despicable," Moriarty purred, with a twinkle in his eye.

Molly shuddered, her skin crawling at the pleasure the man took in torture. She squeezed Sherlock's hand tight, the heat and strength of his touch helping clear her head. His thumb stroked her palm, but he kept his steely gaze trained straight ahead.

The grey wolf in the cage snapped his teeth at the Professor in vain, butting his head against the bars. The covered cage beside it rocked.

"The bars have a thin silver core, with iron wrapped around it," Sherlock muttered. "I can smell it. Break the iron and the wolf'll run into silver and poison themselves. Brilliant, really."

"What are we going to do?" Molly asked. "All these people here have no idea the danger they're in. And what about the Prince- your friend?"

"I don't have _friends."_ Sherlock's face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes were hard. "His 'Lestrade' was Llewellyn once upon a time, yes. Not so strange really; wolfkind shed names like fur."

"Sherlock? That is what Molly called you, isn't it?" Stamford piped up from the bench behind them. Molly turned her head to better hear the apothecary through the rising cheers of the audience. His round face was creased with worry, as he leaned forward.

"If there is danger, why stay? People must be warned about the poisoned wells. And the Colony…we must send word to Molly's grandmother."

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes still locked on the cruel performance. Moriarty drew the stolen silver knife from his belt and taunted the beast with it.

Sherlock steepled his hands in thought. "What's the most important structure in the Village? One that isn't close by."

"I don't know," Molly said, taken aback by the odd question. "Maybe the town silo? It's full, with the harvest done only a few weeks ago."

"Perfect!" Sherlock's eyes lit up. He hopped onto the bench, startling those around them.

"Everyone shut up! Shut up and listen!" A few villagers stared at the tall stranger and some laughed, assuming he was drunk and about to make an ass of himself.

"FIRE," Sherlock shouted. "The grain silo's on fire. Your food is _BURNING_ , you idiots!"

Within a minute, the crowded square had turned to pandemonium.

* * *

"Run back to your cottage," Sherlock said to her as they ran for cover. They ducked behind the inn and Stamford lumbered after them.

Sherlock pushed Molly and the apothecary behind him in the alleyway, and he observed the stampeding villagers headed for the silo near the edge of the town. The lurid festival music had stopped abruptly; screams and alarm bells filled the night air instead.

"Follow the crowd but head for home instead. Bar the door once you're safe."

"No," Molly refused. Her cheeks were flushed and she shivered under her warm cloak. Snow was falling again, the flakes melting into her uncovered hair. She pulled her hood up and huddled tighter to the wall as another panicking group ran by the alley. "I'm staying and fighting here with you."

Sherlock swore under his breath and ran an agitated hand through his curls.

"I know my wolf wouldn't choose a stupid mate. _Go."_ His blue eyes were flecked with gold, and Molly saw his beast rising to the surface.

"I wouldn't be safe in my house if a wolf came knocking at my door, and you know it, Sherlock. If I'm going to die, it won't be huddling under my blankets. I know I'm not very…loud, but I'm not a coward either." She summoned her fiercest expression, and hoped it would be enough to shut down his protests.

"Eh, pardon me," Stamford interrupted. "I'm not entirely clear on what's happening with these bloody carnival creatures…but what's going to happen when they see the silo's not on fire? They'll come right back."

"Good point." Sherlock rummaged through his cloak pockets and produced flint. "Go light it on fire."

"Sherlock, that's our food," Molly protested.

"Fine," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Go light on fire something else _near_ it. A barn, a shed, anything. If you don't, they may be eaten by a pack of wolves like the one you just saw. Don't ask questions, I'll explain later. No- Molly will. I don't care. _Just go."_

Stamford's mouth dropped open and he looked to Molly for confirmation.

She nodded, hoping he would trust her judgment as he had every time they collaborated to heal. She may never have been in love with the man, but she hoped the years of friendship were enough to sway him to accept the madness of the situation.

Whatever he saw in her face was enough. Stamford nodded slowly. "Be safe, Molly." He grabbed the flint and ran faster than she had ever seen him.

She turned back to Sherlock and slid into his arms before he could protest and push her away. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and she offered up her lips silently. To her surprise, Sherlock squeezed her tight and captured her lips with his.

Without breaking the kiss, his hand slipped under her hood to brush her damp waves away from her neck. His mouth worked over her jaw and down her neck to nuzzle the exposed skin, his teeth scraping over the pink mark where he'd bitten her before.

"This is an inconvenient time to discuss the future," Sherlock said, lifting his head. His eyes blazed gold. "But when I contemplate you mating with someone else, I want to howl and bite something. I wouldn't have let you go hungry if the silo burned. I'll feed you. My wolf seems to….I like you. And I have grown used to you assisting me in my work," he added.

Molly flushed, caught between anger, panic and hope. Sherlock had shoved her away and embraced her; he'd rejected her and kissed her senseless in the span of a fortnight. Would he change his mind again when the fighting was all over, if they survived?

She searched his face for clues, but he was a mystery. Her body coursed with the strange energy that had been flowing through her since Sherlock nipped at her neck and brought her body back to life.

No, even before then, he had restored passion and curiosity and challenge to her boring life without even trying. She walked into the forest one day and emerged an entirely different woman on the other side. But he was so strange and solitary. Was there room for her in his cluttered, closed-off world?

She tried to speak clearly, but her throat was tight with the fear he'd turn away. "You have to trust me, Sherlock. And no more running away. I want to know you. We haven't had enough time, but I see so much in you. I really like you."

Sherlock's brow wrinkled in confusion. "You _like_ me?"

Molly pushed onward. "If we survive this, I want to keep spending time with you." Her eyes darted away nervously, and she buried her face against his chest to hide her fear.

* * *

_She likes me._

With her head nestled against his body, her scent filled his nose and he breathed deeply. She smelled of apples, lavender and even traces of nashia, the root that created the Falling but also brought them together.

Sherlock felt something break and come together again, whole and heavy in his chest.

"That's…good. I like you, Molly Hooper."

Inside, his wolf rumbled happily, already energized by the fire and madness of Lupercalia.

_Yes, her. Run together. Learn. Hunt. Mate._

And beyond the simple pleasure of holding his woman was the understanding that it was possibly the last time.

His wolf didn't like that. He was ready to _kill._

"Come and play, Sherlock," a lilting voice in the square called. "The pawns have cleared out, and the proper game can finally begin."

* * *

"This is perfect, more perfect than you know, Sherlock. We were meant to run together. Or die together; it makes no matter to me anymore." Moriarty's ghastly grin faded into flatness. His eyes were unexpectedly dark, not glaring yellow like the gathering souls of the Lupercalia.

The dark-haired taranga dancer, her tin bells ringing with every step, flanked Molly and Sherlock on the left. A pair of redheaded strongmen paced on the right. A trio of musicians closed the circle behind them, their instruments set aside. The benches that formed the audience had been knocked over in the haste of the fleeing villagers, but the firepits still blazed. The bare branches of the trees around the town square offered no protection from the falling snow.

Perched on the edge of the covered cage, Moriarty laughed. The inhabitant of the enclosure was tossing their body to and fro, and the cage rocked.

"A new wolf," Sherlock observed with a sniff.

"Oh yes, Henry's had a bit of a tough transition. You know, since we ate his father." Moriarty pulled a face, and then laughed. "I was going to unleash him on the town, watch him tear into his neighbors before we killed the rest, but this is much more intimate. I am glad I got a chance to show off my real prize, though."

He knocked on the bars of the other cage, and the wolf inside snarled and settled on the floor. The creature watched them warily, his muscles tense.

"Llewellyn. Lestrade. Going by the scar on his left back paw, and the degree of starvation, you've had him three years?"

Moriarty tapped his nose. "You _are_ good. Yes, about that. I'd planned on keeping him from the day I turned him, but he escaped a few centuries ago and I got bored searching. He was a traitor to his own blood, hunting all creatures except for you, his _pet_. And then hunting the rest of us. I knew he would, after his brat kicked off. Boo-hoo," he said scornfully. "Stupid short-lived humans, believing they have the right to rule every domain, even in our own woods where wolfkind is king."

"Was king," Sherlock corrected. "And wolf was never ambitious."

"Your big brother would disagree, but he's out of our fur for a few years."

"Yes, he went to the eastern continent to search for more of our kind. Ah… that's why you rose again in the last few years." Sherlock's lips curled. "You're afraid of Mycroft."

"Oh no," Moriarty denied. "Someday I'll dance with him too, after I send him your skull in a picnic basket. Unless you join with me, as these wolves have."

The taranga dancer shifted and the tin bells rang. Molly glanced over and was surprised when the woman caught her eye.

And winked.

Molly's eyebrows rose and she opened her mouth to speak, but the dancer pointedly shifted her gaze back to her employer.

"Your numbers are looking a little low, Professor. I don't smell the two big greys I encountered in the woods last week. Having recruitment issues, are we?" Sherlock taunted.

"The blood potential is rare these days, and thickheaded wolves run into hunters more and more. But one wolf is worth a dozen humans and to tell you the truth, I've never lost one that I actually wanted to keep." He shrugged and plucked a stray blade of grass off his emerald coat. He hopped off the cage, and the rocking ceased. The occupant of the cage yelped.

Moriarty crossed his arms and studied them. "I meant what I said before though, this _is_ perfect. We're just alike, you and I. My loyal greys- one of them went off to take care of his sister. He should be back shortly to join the fun. The other, my dear Moran…he's a valuable soldier. Truly, _genuinely_ adores slaughter. He's an artist in his own way. But tonight we have no time for subtlety; winter came early and we've other villages to level." Moriarty covered his mouth but a few giggles spilled out nonetheless. "While you were here, setting the fat fellow to lighting barns on fire, my man Moran is paying a visit to the Colony. He's brought flint and vials of that flammable swamp gas that is so fantastically explosive, and common in these parts. As I'm sure you know."

Moriarty laughed joyously now. "The Colony, and everyone in it, is going up in flames as we speak. So you see, we think just alike. It's really quite nice when you think about it."

Picturing Grandmother, Angelo, John the healer, and the Falling victims like young Peter, Molly cried out. "No! You can't! They're harmless, they're weak."

Sherlock squeezed her hand. "Not now," he said coolly, and she bit down on her lips to stifle the words.

The Professor looked delighted at her tears. "Yes, no more pesky Falling to deal with, no more rotting noses dropping into their soup bowls. No more Grandmother welcoming you to her loving bosom, or whatever it is you humans do with each other."

The covered cage began to rock frantically, and the creature inside howled pitifully.

"Poor Henry, changed and cooped up like a chicken with nothing to peck. Hmm, well I suppose I could let him rip into your woman." Moriarty's gaze skimmed over Molly and he smiled brightly. "But I've developed a taste for her sweet scent. She's just so _ripe."_

Sherlock growled, and his golden eyes shimmered. Moriarty's mad grin fell away, and answering yellow flecks rose in his irises.

"I think I'll tear her apart," he said calmly. "I'll make her love me first. I'll turn her, and she'll beg me to take her hard, and then she'll beg me to kill her just to end the pain. And there will be a lot of pain, Sherlock. A world of it."

With his last hissed words, a dizzying rush of power poured from Moriarty, knocking Sherlock to his knees. Echoes of it touched Molly and she rubbed her temples, trying to focus and stay on her feet. The force of the mindfog was aimed at Sherlock, but the Professor's gift was so overwhelming, it spilled into the air around him.

The strongmen gasped and stepped back, and the dancer shied away from the pair in the center.

Moriarty jumped, one long blur of motion that had him straddling Sherlock's chest a heartbeat after he'd left the stage.

Sherlock lay stunned on the ground, completely silent. His mouth was slack and his arms limp. Snowflakes drifted down into his open eyes.

Moriarty ripped the silver knife from his belt, and lifted it high, the point angled toward Sherlock's throat.

Lestrade growled in his cage and stood, with hackles raised.

The wolves of the Lupercalia rushed forward, and Molly screamed.

* * *

The stars disappeared and the sky had bled from black to green to red to a sickening orange before Sherlock realized something was wrong.

Above him was a swirl of shifting color that his mind couldn't grasp. The ache in his head grew, but Sherlock was unable to look away from the splintering world. His arms and legs vanished, and he felt the ground rise to smack his back, but it didn't matter.

He had to know what the color was in the sky, why the variations were so unique. How did they manifest in more shades than he'd ever spotted in the prisms he created experimenting with glass? He spent decades mastering the craft but he had never seen anything like the shimmering shades bleeding through his brain at that very moment.

In the distance, he heard a thin high sound, a wordless sorrow nagging him away from the rapture of color. He pushed it away and lost himself in the colors again, wondering vaguely why the cry sounded like Molly.

* * *

Molly screamed and the taranga dancer held her back with an unforgiving grip. The strongmen, the musicians, and three stagehands clustered around them.

"Hush now, be a good girl," the dancer crooned in Molly's ear. "Let us take care of him."

"Yes, let us, dear. Well this is boring," remarked Moriarty. He held the knife aloft over Sherlock's neck. "Went down as gentle as a baby."

The knife shook in his fingers. Moriarty frowned at his hand. He squeezed the handle of the silver blade and glanced down at Sherlock.

His eyes were open but lifeless. Molly thrashed in the dancer's arms, cursing and kicking futilely.

Moriarty's hold tightened and the lethal knifepoint plunged toward Sherlock's bare throat-

And froze, hovering a half inch over the stretched cord of his neck.

Moriarty's brow furrowed and his eyes glowed yellow and furious. His arm muscles flexed and his teeth gritted, but the blade remained locked in place.

"…no more…" a voice whispered faintly.

The Professor's head swung around and he screamed in rage.

Molly followed his gaze, and found lying on the ground to her everlasting wonder, the bloody and battered form of Soo Lin.

* * *

"Well now, this is exciting!" Moriarty laughed. "You're covered in Zhi Zhu's blood, arterial if I know my scents…and I do. So my wolf has fallen." He sniffed, sucking in the smells covered her wafting through the air. "And Hope as well? I have to admit, I'm rather impressed.[ I knew the Yao clan was among the oldest of wolfkind bloodlines, but you, _you_ , are just full of surprises."

Moriarty hopped off the supine body of Sherlock, and faced the woman. He smiled, took a step toward her with blade in hand- and stumbled.

Soo Lin dragged herself to sitting. She held herself painfully, clutching her unnaturally bent arm but her face was calm and focused. Her eyes had bled to gold, and they locked on Moriarty without blinking.

"What exactly…do you think you're doing?" Moriarty winced, and took another unsteady step. Molly gasped, and the dancer holding her was oddly quiet. The Lupercalia wolves held fast, watching as their leader struggled to move.

"She's giving you a hefty dose of your own fog, I would imagine," a cool voice commented. "You do have strange taste in friends, Molly."

_"Sherlock."_

* * *

He jumped to standing and tore Molly from the grip of the taranga dancer. The dark-haired woman let go of her easily.

"Finish it," she commanded.

"Pardon?" Sherlock's left eyebrow rose.

"He's weakened. _Finish him_." The dancer pushed past him, her ankle bells ringing and skirts swishing. She zeroed in on Moriarty and waves of power flowed from her to join Soo Lin's blast directed at the monster.

"Dumb bitch," Moriarty muttered, shaking his head. His eyes had bled back to dark brown, but his fist still clenched around the knife handle. "Should have let you rot in that village prison where I found you, Irene. Take her," he shrieked at the strongmen.

"No rescue is worth centuries of service or this much death. Die," she hissed.

The strongmen glanced at one another, and Molly saw resolve form in their expressions. Their golden gazes captured Moriarty's, and the tide of power grew.

The wolves of the Lupercalia gathered round, and pummeled the fallen man with the weight of the mindfog. Onstage, Lestrade shifted back to human form, and his power linked with theirs. Soo Lin's gift flowed over them and guided the ones who had been weakened and abused for so long under the murderer's watch.

"Mutiny..." Moriarty swayed and his eyes fluttered.

"Hate will never bind people together truly," Soo Lin said. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and Molly heard the exhaustion in her voice. "You killed my brother, not me."

Moriarty dropped to his knees and screamed raggedly, his face twisted in agony. Sherlock brushed a kiss over Molly's forehead, and let go of her. He trotted over to the discarded knife, and picked it up carefully, avoiding the silver edge.

The others held the Professor imprisoned in the collective force of their minds.

Sherlock's gaze met Molly's. She understood and nodded.

_There is a time for mercy, and a time for none. We harvest what we sow. This is the only way._

"She's right. Finish him."

Sherlock held the knife's point over the jugular of Professor Moriarty, and this time nothing came between the blade and the flesh.

Blood flowed, and silver saturated the wound. He gasped and gurgled, and for an agonizing moment, his hands scrambled to close the cut in his throat. There was no escaping the silver though, as it soaked into his veins and stilled his heart. Then there was only silence.

* * *

Sherlock threw the knife aside, and rushed to take Molly back into his arms. She kissed him on the cheek, but then tugged him over to Soo Lin.

"She'll be fine," he said calmly. "Stitching might help, but the broken ribs and arm will heal on their own within a few days. The fractured femur will take longer."

Molly gasped, and cradled her friend on the ground. Soo Lin was so coated in t blood seeping through the man's clothing she wore, that Molly couldn't properly catalogue the injuries.

"Femur? How did you walk at all? You're amazing." Tears flowed, and she wiped them away with the corner of her red cloak.

Soo Lin almost smiled. "Had to. Really does hurt. Need a bath. I want to get these clothes and the stink of that man off of me. It's…been a long night."

"Molly," Sherlock said tensely, standing over them.

"Busy, Sherlock," she replied. Molly rummaged through her pockets for the bandages she'd tucked in there before the festival began.

"Molly, the Colony. Moran. I have to leave."

What Moriarty had said earlier ran through her mind.

 _"Fire._ Grandmother. John. Damn. You have to save them."

Sherlock nodded and stripped out of his clothes. He tossed them onto an overturned bench. "You need to stay here this time. I can run faster without you."

He blurred and changed, and the wolf who saved her in the forest stood before her with his mixture of black and red fur. He nudged her with his wet muzzle and bumped his furry head against her arm. Molly stroked the fur of his head, and he yipped.

"You're a beautiful wolf." Molly smiled. "I won't leave Soo Lin like this. Go. But you have to promise to come back."

The wolf yipped again, licked her hand, and then darted into the woods.

* * *

"We'll take care of the corpse," the dark-haired woman remarked. "The villagers will wander back this way soon." She opened Moriarty's coat and dug through his inside pockets to retrieve a ring of keys. She threw the keys to the redheaded strongmen, who hurried onstage to unlock the cages.

"Were you going to let him kill us until Soo Lin turned up? Irene, he called you."

"That wasn't the plan, no. Your Sherlock seemed like our best bet for making a move for freedom, but then he went down hard under the mindfog. I should've known it would be a woman who saved us." She winked at Soo Lin.

To Molly, Irene said, "I'm going after him. Moran is a nasty bugger. Your man is strong, but we'll be stronger as a pack and this is a rare opportunity. Boys." She waved at the strongmen and the trio of musicians. "One last mess to clean up before we're free. I can bite you- turn you, I mean, if it's what you want. You have the blood and you're clever. If Sherlock doesn't come back-"

"He will come back," Molly insisted. "He will. I'm certain of it."

"A touching degree of faith. Right then- off to the Grandmother's Colony we go."


	11. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating bumped up to E for this last chapter!

The wolf watched and waited, scanning the Colony grounds. He was ready, and hungry for the kill.

He shifted on the outskirts of the area, leaving behind his clothing and the vials of distilled inflammatory fluid. There would be time for fire later, but this was the time for pleasure, for reveling in the hot flow of blood. His weaknesses melted away when he shifted into wolf in the forest; no doubt, no hesitation, no mercy for prey. Not even the grey-haired old one he hunted now, tracking them from the stream into the field.

Moran padded through the trees under the cover of darkness, the sound of his paws disguised by the rising winds. Snow fell, blocking out the stars in the sky, and the moisture in the air made the smells more powerful.

Human footsteps shuffling over fresh snow put Moran on alert. He paused at the edge of the Colony and his golden eyes burned in the dark. In the far distance, he spotted a short ash-haired man hauling buckets of food to the residents who gathered around the gates of the quarantine. He sniffed, picking up the odors of stewed rabbit and dried apples.

 _Meat wasted on the dead_ , the wolf thought. _Yellow-haired man and the rotting ones die later. Meal first._

Moran turned back toward his prey, who had crossed the field and entered a cabin. Smoke rose from the chimney, smelling of wood and a trace of charred beef. The wolf followed, trotting through the tall grass and keeping low to the ground.

He scented the door, noting the smells of healing herbs inside the cottage.

 _The red cloaked one smells of herbs too. Witches and healers,_ he thought.

Inside he could hear one heartbeat, one body moving through the home, preparing for the evening meal. Beef was roasting over the hearth, and the cook had added wild garlic and pepper to the pot.

 _More waste_ , the wolf fumed. The man inside him was melting away. _Meat should be bloody. Raw. Living. Its own spice._

His muzzle dripped, and he growled.

Inside the cabin, the footsteps stopped. The floorboards creaked and the feet approached the door. The shutters above Moran's head flew open; he pressed his long body flat against the cottage, invisible to anyone above.

 _No need for mindfog,_ he thought with a sneer. _These fools are blind on their own._

The hunger gnawed at his belly, but he forced himself to wait a moment, to savor the anticipation.

Moran heard a muttered "Huh," and the shutters closed, the rusty hinges squeaking.

_You see nothing, you hear nothing._

_You are nothing._

Moran drew himself to his full wolfen height, elongating the muscles of his back and legs before dropping into a tight crouch.

He _sprang_ at the door, shattering it into splinters with one devastating crash of his huge paws.

The wolf landed inside, and with a swipe of his claws tore the throat from his victim, ending a scream just as it began. His great jaws snapped and old bones crunched between his teeth. Blood spurted and he gulped it down happily.

_Soft, wet, warm, gushing meat. Yes, good._

* * *

Sherlock raced through the woods on four legs, knowing he wouldn't make it in time.

Moran had had too long a head-start, and it was impossible to pinpoint exactly when Moriarty's right-hand wolf had left the Lupercalia.

He came across definite signs of someone crossing through his territory and over the dirt path. The scent trail wound through the woods, and the thin layer of snow on the ground created mud that held footprints easily. The human shape of the prints surprised him for a second before he recalled Moriarty's remarks about having his man use the Crescent swamp gas to make the fire more devastating. The vapors distilled to liquid form required only the tiniest spark to cause a bonfire.

 _Can't travel as wolf while carrying vials, can you_ , he thought. _Well I can, but not you lot._

Sherlock had long ago devised a pouch with a strap that he could loop around his neck to tote small items when he wanted to travel on all fours. He rarely used it, but now he found himself wishing he could show Molly the clever invention when he saw her again.

If he saw her again.

She would appreciate the cunning loop and release-catch of it, the exact measurement of the strap that wouldn't choke him as man or wolf. It was rather genius of him.

 _I'll make her one to match when she's wolf, to hold her herbs when she goes gathering_ , he resolved.

Sherlock reached the bend of the stream as it neared the Colony, and he smelled fabric rolled up with the unpleasant odor of another dominant wolf. Ears perked for threats, he nosed at the bundle of clothing.

They were Moran's, and underneath his musk was another scent, one that Sherlock knew very well.

He carefully nudged the pockets of the man's coat, and heard the soft clink of containers bumping one another.

Moriarty wasn't bluffing about the fire, but he'd known that was unlikely.

But Moran had left the vials behind in his arrogance. Sherlock observed the trail leading from the clothes to the Colony, into the field beyond.

Leading straight toward the cabin where Molly's Grandmother lived.

Pick off the weak older female and then John Watson and the baker, he imagined, and then an easy mass killing in the caves where the victims of the Falling huddled. A tidy plan, and simple plots were usually the best.

His paws were too clumsy for the job; sometimes being human was actually useful. The air around Sherlock blurred and he fell to the ground, nude and human. He grinned and scooped the vials from Moran's pockets

_You can only afford to be arrogant if you're as clever as I am, and you aren't, Moran._

Carrying the vials cautiously, Sherlock traced the wolf's path through the field. Approaching the cabin's ruined door, he knew once again that he was already too late.

The night stank of blood and carnage and marrow cracked from bones.

* * *

"My my, what big teeth you have, Moran! And yet still you spill so much blood on the floor. Didn't your family ever teach you how to hunt and dine properly?"

Moran lifted his massive head from the body, tearing flesh from the belly. Gore coated his muzzle and throat. The body was mangled horribly but with the clothing shredded, the truth was clear. Sherlock remembered sitting in this cabin and deducing Grandmother, to Molly's embarrassment.

The greying dark hairs he'd spotted in the pillow indent, the ones that were clearly not Gran's but her bedmate's, were now scattered around the cabin.

"Came looking for the person in charge, I suppose," Sherlock commented as Moran stood, a growl pouring from his throat. "Smart to take out the leader of the Colony first, keep them confused and frightened without guidance. Only Angelo wasn't the leader, and this isn't his cabin. What a terribly _common_ mistake, Moran."

Sherlock smirked and rolled the vials between his fingers, and the firelight reflected on the glass. Moran tilted his head, realizing what the man held. The growl ceased, and the wolf took a step back from the savaged body of the baker.

Sherlock stepped farther into the cabin and strolled around the room. He noted the food in the hearth and casually lifted the lid to take a look at the meal.

Moran watched him warily, waiting for the right second to pounce. The man walked deeper into danger, instead of running or shifting.

Sherlock saw the confusion in his wolf eyes, and smiled.

Despite the calm in his tone, Sherlock's eyes bled to yellow as he spoke. The wolf and the man were at war now for dominance. "Moriarty is dead. I'd offer to let you walk away but we both know that's a mistake. To the death then. But as man or as wolf? What shape will you be when you join your beloved master Moriarty?"

Moran threw back his head and howled, a winding call that would be heard for a mile.

Sherlock flicked the caps off the vials, and was ready when the wolf sprang toward him. In a blur of motion, he heaved the contents of the vials at the wolf, all the while calculating the arc of the wolf's jump. Then he dropped the vials and waited until the very last second, until the wolf was upon him.

He leapt aside. The beast's paws stretched for Sherlock's throat, and a razor sharp claw grazed his neck.

But his measurements had been flawless, and the angle of his stance before the fire perfectly chosen.

Moran crashed past Sherlock and landed in the hearth. His huge torso crushed the flames, but it only took a spark.

The wolf burst into flames, the fire blazing over his body before a breath had left him. Ragged screams tore from his throat, and in a desperate last act of self-preservation, he tried to shift back to human. His body was covered in the thick grey fur of his wolf, but his face and limbs were human and ghastly. Moran thrashed on the floor, the fire eating up the air around him. He choked and cried out, but the firepower of the Crescent vapors was merciless.

Sherlock bolted from the cabin and into the night.

Already John Watson was running from the caves and waving his hands. Behind Sherlock, the cabin itself was alight and only a few pitiful shrieks from Moran were heard before the roar of the burning blocked out the sound.

"Get the buckets! We can use snow and earth as well to smother it!" John shouted at the others rushing behind him. The quarantine gates had been shoved open when panic set in. Sherlock noticed how the man remained sensible even in an emergency and inwardly approved.

"Don't bother," Sherlock responded, as the shorter man ran to him. The cabin became a huge bonfire as they watched. "There is an accelerant that will make it nearly impossible. The fire will burn itself out within an hour. The swamp gas does anyway, and I've no reason to believe the distilled form will be any different."

"Mother Hudson's in the caves, thank the gods. What happened?!" John grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him back away from the flames. "And why the hell are you naked?"

Sherlock glanced downward. _Oh right. Modesty._ Some human things he would never get the hang of.

* * *

The taranga dancer Irene and a few of her fellow travelers arrived moments later, but held back, hovering in the brush around the Colony. Sherlock scented and heard their arrival and waved them away.

Irene lifted one elegant eyebrow at the burning cabin, and Sherlock nodded curtly. Irene tipped her head in appreciation and addressed her cohorts.

"Oh he _is_ good. I'm tempted to recruit him for a new ringmaster, but the little red-hooded one is for him. And I fancy the Lupercalia is overdue to have a ring _mistress_." She grinned at the festival musicians, who groaned and trotted after her obediently when she dove back into the forest.

* * *

John held Grandmother tightly while she wept against his chest. His wife Mary stood by, tears running down her face.

Sherlock was rather proud of himself for offering an alternate cause of death for her baker. She wouldn't have wanted to know about how he was torn up. He was being considerate, he was certain of it.

"The dear man," Grandmother muttered again and again. "Such a death, to burn."

"Angelo would've smothered to death before the flames got to him," Sherlock added helpfully.

"Sherlock," John said, his voice hard. "Not now."

"What?" Sherlock frowned. "When the fire burns down, don't go in there. I'd like to take some samples of the residue before it's destroyed and the remaining floor boards will be unsound even if they appear intact. Also there may be some leftover body-"

John's steely expression cut him off.

"Oh. Right. By the way, your wife isn't going to die."

"What?!" John's eyes widened, and Mary's head jerked up. Her blue hood fell back and her bright eyes looked fearful.

"Why would you say that? I know my lot."

"You don't have the plague, Mrs. Watson. You aren't contagious so you can remove that hideous cowl. You have poisoning from nashia root. Obviously some people will still die as a result of it, but you're not that far along, still got most of your fingers and toes. Stop drinking from the wells and it'll work its way out of your body over time. Not sure how long yet. You'll be fine."

Mary's mouth moved without making a sound. John gently let go of Grandmother and turned to Sherlock. He grasped his arms and looked him dead in the eye.

"Are you certain?"

Sherlock raised his brows at the physical contact. "Positive. I can show you the data at my cottage. The wells are poisoned. Drink fresh water from rivers and streams until they sort out the wells."

John's hands clamped down on Sherlock's upper arms. For a small man, he was surprisingly strong. Without a word, he hugged Sherlock tightly. Then he remembered Sherlock's nudity and stepped back.

"Oh bloody hell. Put some trousers on, man, before my wife decides to leave me for the man who saved her life." John laughed and swept Mary into his arms, kissing her deeply. She sobbed and kissed him hungrily, starved for affection after months of only the safest touches. He caressed her cheek, smoothing his thumb over the pale scars where the Falling had marked her.

"I'll never be as I was," Mary said softly, tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

"You are more beautiful than you have ever been, love." John and Mary kissed once more, and then returned to hug Mrs. Hudson. The older woman's head spun with the news of the great discovery so soon after her terrible loss.

"I cannot conceive of it. So much death and evil." She squeezed Mary's hand. "But this, this is a miracle. The Falling is no more."

* * *

Sherlock slipped away while the women cried and hugged. John waved, and he returned the comfortable gesture naturally.

He raced through the woods, with a quick stop to fetch clothing from his cottage. On the quick journey to the Village, he realized with a start that for the first time in over three hundred years, he had a friend.

 _Two friends?_ He considered. But Molly was more than a friend. She was companion, she was mate, she was sunshine and the forest and the scent of home.

He hurried to the center of the Village to find it bustling with activity again, the people flooded back to the town square. The Lupercalia dais remained, but the rest of the gear was being packed away.

"Bad weather, m'dears," Irene called out to the ones returning, charming them with her wicked eyes and red lips. "We'll return soon enough, but early snows and a fire, poor luck for a revel."

There was no sign of Moriarty's corpse, and the pool of blood where he'd died was covered with mud and straw. One look between Irene and Sherlock told him she'd taken care of the problem.

The disappointed people staggered through the alleys, brushing soot off their clothes and heading for the taverns for their usual variety of entertainment.

Sherlock followed the distinct scent of Molly through the little streets and to the stoop of a potter's shop. He smelled the other female, Soo Lin, there as well, and realized it was her establishment. He let himself in the unlocked door.

Molly stuck her head out of the backroom door to see who'd entered and an embarrassing squeak popped out of her mouth. He heard Soo Lin laugh softly in the back room.

"Sherlock." And then Molly was in his arms, climbing him and dragging his mouth down to crush against hers. His thoughts of verbally conveying his intentions disappeared as their arms locked their bodies together.

"He's…he's dead?" she asked, breathless.

"Dead and burnt. Angelo as well, as it happens, but the rest are safe."

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she squeezed him tighter, smelling the soot on his skin.

"Thank you. Thank you for saving the rest of them, for everything. For finding me in the woods." She kissed him again.

He stroked her hair and reacquainted himself with the taste of her neck. He kissed the mark on her throat. "You are welcome. But I think it is fairer to say that you found _me_."

* * *

Once, a long time ago in the mountains of the west, there lived a young boy who loved the spring. Hunting was better in the summer but the days of first-green, as his mum called it, those were the days when everything dead came back to life and filled the cracks formed by winter's ice. Ants crawled from the dirt and flowers bloomed on the vines of the cottage where he lived with his family. He would spend all day on his belly, studying the new buds sprouting from the earth and observing the tracks insects left in the soil.

As the boy grew older, he realized wolves didn't concern themselves with the patterns of the worthless animals, and that he was a freak even among his own breed. He roamed the forest, using his keen nose to scent out plants to collect instead of deer to take down with his teeth. There were days for hunting, and he loved the thrill and the tastes, but he needed to understand more of the world. He needed to know the how and why of things.

His older brother shared his curiosity, but ultimately Mycroft moved on, having reached young adulthood. He was no longer able to share close quarters with a fellow dominant wolf like their Father. Mycroft's gifts were outpacing their father's, and he needed his own territory or their instincts would force them to fight. Sherlock didn't understand why he had to go so far though, and abandon people who needed him in the western woods.

When he reached maturity, Sherlock struck out on his own, seeing the growing distrust in his father's eyes. Sherlock could control his own wolf, and stay a logical man; why couldn't his own blood kin? But the beast inside them was too strong, and it drove his father to view his offspring as enemy. Mother kissed him goodbye with tears in her eyes, and begged him to send word when he found his own territory and settled down.

"You'll take a mate of your own, and have babes, and I'll come and visit if your woman's amenable to it. Every wolf has to make his own clan eventually, you know." She packed his favorite books and tools into satchels, kissed him once more, and that was the last he ever saw of his mother.

They were caught in the mass slaughter of wolfkind inspired by Moriarty's mad attack of the Prince.

 _I will never have a pack_ , he promised himself when he heard of their deaths. Upholding his arrangement with Moriarty was simple. He never wanted another friend after making the mistake of trusting Llewellyn.

_Never take a mate; never be part of a clan that makes me weak. I don't need anyone. You've done me a favor, you fool._

The years passed and without realizing it, he grew gaunt and grim.

He buried himself in experiments and theories, deleting the past as the years receded from him. In the woods, he lost himself in impartial knowledge and watched the world change from a safe distance.

It wasn't until a red-hooded woman with big brown eyes stumbled into his forest that he realized he'd grown hollow. With a scent like a healer's garden, she filled him up and made him view the subsequent days as a new adventure. Even the people she drew to her were less loathsome than most humans, and he found, much to his chagrin, that he _liked_ people.

Not that many, granted. But he'd spent hours in the company of John with minimal annoyance, once he decided that the man had no sexual interest in his Molly. Her spirited grandmother reminded him of his own mother with her practical, good-hearted charm. The baker Angelo had accepted his oddness with a shrug, and he was shocked to feel a genuine pang of regret about the man's painful death at the hands of Moran.

How could a woman so seemingly simple, sweet and ordinary be the most remarkable person he'd ever known? That she was of the blood was an unthinkable blessing, if he believed in such things. His mother had faith in the old gods of the wood, and offered prayers to them. Sherlock never uncovered evidence in the forest to make him believe in anything at all until he found Molly.

He was not a praying man, but for her, he could make an offering of himself.

* * *

It was understood by anyone who looked at them that Sherlock and Molly's lives were already intertwined.

The winter months passed, and Molly made the journey to his cottage once a week to assist with experiments, and to study his 'friend' the skeleton. They researched the aftereffects of the Falling, and she shared her healing challenges with him.

Restoring the victims to health after long-term poisoning was entirely new to her. Sherlock wasn't a trained anatomist, but his chemistry knowledge and agile mind saw solutions sometimes when she had stalled out. He didn't always know the answer, but Molly found he was brilliant at asking the right questions.

Saying goodbye at the end of those days became harder each week, with their bodies pressing closer and close together, reluctant to part. Each time his lips brushed over her throat, he was tempted to sink his teeth in and make her finally his.

But he waited while she focused on bringing the Village back to life and health.

When the heavy snows came, he traveled to her home in the Village and sat by the fire with her to share meals. She was more relaxed in her home territory, and he learned that the cheerful healer had a mischievous streak that showed itself at inappropriate times.

While she stewed the rabbit meat he had brought her, Molly hummed and sang the filthiest ditty he'd heard in centuries.

"I don't even understand why the milkmaid would do that with the maypole," Sherlock observed. "It seems the author merely wanted to find a convenient rhyme for 'lass.'"

Molly giggled, and continued seasoning their meal over the fire. Though she was less anxious at home, the nights when he visited her small cottage were even more difficult, because her bed never more than a dozen paces away from them. It was impossible not to think of taking him to bed, when she spent every night alone under the covers dreaming about it.

They supped at her table, while he deduced the secrets of the villagers for his own amusement, and Molly and Sherlock gradually learned each other.

* * *

The Village recovered slowly, but in the spring, the people shook off the stiffness of the cold and broke soil for sowing their gardens. Ice no longer formed in the wells, and the widows gathered around the center well that was now free of nashia, safe for drinking and washing. The merchants opened their shutters to let fresh air in, and in early March, Soo Lin reopened her pottery shop full-time.

She was whole and content, with only a slight limp in her once-fractured leg. Her ribs and arm healed within days, but she had to stay out of sight for a much longer period to disguise that she healed unbelievably quickly. Shadows of grief for her lost brother darkened her lovely eyes, but Soo Lin was at last free.

"I think I'm going to visit the coast," she told Molly, chatting in the shop while customers browsed her shelves. "I haven't been in- well, in a very long time. I was born in the mountains but when we were children, we stayed with a cousin by the shore. We built villages in the sand and made up stories…" She drifted off, and Molly knew she was thinking of her brother again. "Well, it doesn't matter. I _am_ going to do it, in the summer. I'll return in time for the harvest fest, and we can catch up over cider."

She smiled, and Molly realized it was the first time Soo Lin had ever before spoken to her of the future. Soo Lin changed the subject to the influx of people to the Village, no longer frightened away by the plague.

The Colony was empty by midwinter, and young Peter moved back to the Village. The boy had survived and his recovery was complete.

Molly marveled at the resilience of children, watching him run down the cobblestoned road. She was surprised and pleased to find Michael Stamford accompanying Peter's mother to a town meal in April. Michael never spoke of the strange events of Lupercalia.

She suspected that even though he got away with it, he wanted to forget about setting Farmer Movingian's barn on fire that night. The structure burned to the ground, but no people or animals had been killed. His sensible mind put aside the curious events of the Lupercalia, and he worked happily alongside Molly and the Watsons, who had moved into the Village inn. John and Mary helped prepare medicine for those still struggling with the symptoms of the Falling, as they healed.

The Village recovered, and in the spring, Molly came to Sherlock.

* * *

He noticed the disturbed bushes along the path to his cottage, and cocked an ear. Only chirping birds and scurrying moles were heard. Sherlock tracked the smears of dirt on the rocks by the stream until the footprints took a familiar shape, and he smiled. The breezes were gentle but strong enough to carry her natural fragrance on the wind. He jogged toward the cottage, glad he'd donned clothing by the river after his four-legged run through the forest. Molly still found it jarring when he walked around naked after a hunt.

 _She likes the look of my body though_ , he thought smugly, hopping up the steps. _Ridiculous human modesty, it really is a pain in the…_

His stream of thought came to a stop when he opened the door and found the ladder to the loft open.

Following her scent, he glanced up to find a pair of legs poking through the door in the ceiling.

"Hello!" Molly's bare feet dangled, with flowing red fabric draped around them. "Finished my rounds early and wanted to see if you've got the results of your butterfly pupa study."

"Really?" He closed the front door behind him.

Molly leaned forward until her face was visible to him below. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and laughed. Dimples formed in her cheeks. "No, not really."

Her hands moved, rustling her scarlet cloak, and untying the strings. She pushed the fabric away from her body, letting it slide over her legs to drop onto the floor below. Sherlock saw now she hadn't been wearing a stitch of clothing except for her hooded cape.

_Oh._

He felt strangely uncertain. "You mean now?"

"Yes, Sherlock." Molly's smile shone in the dim light of the loft. She stretched out a hand and crooked her finger in an unmistakable gesture of invitation.

* * *

His clothes were discarded in a blur and he was up the ladder within a few seconds. Molly scooted back from the opening, and rolled over to move on her hands and knees toward the mattress. She glanced back to find him kneeling on the floor nude, watching her crawl.

His eyes burned hotly, and as she watched, bled to yellow-gold. She took in his nude form- the lean powerful muscles of his torso and the hardness thickening between his legs, and knew his insecurity was past. He bent forward onto his hands and began to crawl after her, a predatory light in his eyes.

Molly swung her head back around and hurried toward the bed, knowing the movement caused her hips to sway and tease. She crawled onto the soft furs, and laid on her back. Sherlock climbed over the furs and settled alongside her, facing Molly and slipping his arm around her waist.

He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he intended to say vanished. Molly peered up at him, and looked her fill of his unselfconscious nudity.

"You're lovely." She tentatively caressed his belly, tracing the lines of muscle up and across his chest. Her fingertips grazed over his sensitive nipples, and he grew harder against her.

"Are men lovely? Some might say handsome," he replied, his thumb stroking her hip where his hand rested.

"Lovely," she insisted, her face stubborn. "Those dark curls. Cheekbones sharp enough to cut. Odd. I'm not saying it right, but you're a hard man to pin down. May have to research some more." Her fingertips skimmed over his jawline. "Construct a theory, or an entire study," she teased. "I'm going to have to get used to not being the pretty one in this relationship."

Sherlock frowned. Was she really so blind? "That's absurd. Your observation skills are rarely this terrible. They've developed considerably since you met me. You're beautiful. You have a fine mind. You're a skilled healer, and you're more tolerable than every other woman I've met in my life and-"

She cut him off with a kiss, her arm wrapped tight around his neck. She tugged him down to cover her and he shifted until his chest pressed against hers. Molly wrapped her legs around his waist and deepened the kiss. He tensed and then relaxed. They'd restrained themselves to safe, slow kisses over the past months, but the last barriers had been shed. She was _his_ for the taking. Sherlock gave in and took everything she offered.

In a way, it was new to him, and he relished the discovery. Sherlock barely remembered the few frantic couplings of his youth, having deleted most of the unsatisfying and awkward counters. For Molly it was more familiar, her husband being only a few years gone. She'd felt unfulfilled in his arms, and since she'd learned to please herself in bed, she saw her late husband simply hadn't bothered trying at all.

Sherlock noticed everything, she realized, from the sharp intake of breath when his tongue found her nipple to the tensing of her belly when he licked his way downward. He missed nothing as he kissed and inhaled and tasted the expanses of her flesh. He grew so fascinated with her pleased yelps that he was reluctant to lift his lips from her sex even after she'd reached her peak, tugging on his hair. He was utterly wrapped up in his exploration, and disconcerted when Molly giggled and forced him to roll over on his back so she could reciprocate.

Molly took her time acquainting herself with his cock enthusiastically, not minding when he reacted to the extreme stimulation at first by yanking her hair.

She straddled his hips, sitting lightly on his groin, and admiring the man beneath her. Sherlock's eye color shifted with degrees of arousal, a fascinating indicator of his feelings. His curls were tousled and his mouth red from their heated kisses. The fading light streaming through the window shadowed the angles of his high cheekbones.

Molly cupped his cheek and rubbed his bottom lip. He nipped at the finger, and smiled when she sighed. She lifted her hips, allowing him to move under her, before reaching down to slide his cock through her fist, bringing him back to complete hardness. She teased the head of him with her wetness, and his eyes bled to gold.

Sherlock sat bolt upright and grabbed Molly by the hips. He rolled her onto her back in the furs, hiked up her leg, and sank his cock into her, fully sheathing himself in the tight heat of her.

Molly moaned and rocked her hips, adjusting to the stretch. Muscles ached in her thighs, making her feel like she hadn't used them in years.

Sherlock thrust into her, unevenly at first but then finding his rhythm with her guidance. Molly dug her nails into his shoulders and shifted her hips upward, allowing him to ride her harder and deeper. She slipped one hand between them to stroke the bundle of nerves in her folds while he plunged into her.

"I need, are you ready- I need," he said between gritted teeth. He pumped faster into her and Molly understood his real question.

"Yes," she said, kissing him. "Yes, now, I'm ready. Sherlock, _please."_

"Not this way," he said, pulling out of her and flipping her over onto her belly. Molly barely had time to bend her knees and rest on her elbows before he entered her again from behind, his hips slapping against her bum while he rode her. After a moment of frenzied thrusting, he wrapped one arm around her middle and hauled her up, so she was seated on his thighs with his cock still buried inside her.

"Closer, need you closer."

Sherlock pushed her long hair off her back, around to the front, to expose her pale neck. He kissed and tasted his way across her shoulder.

Molly rocked on his lap. " _Move_ , Sherlock, please."

Sherlock snaked his hands around to cup her breasts while his lips found the tender skin of her nape. She arched against his palms, pleading for more. He obliged, snapping his hips and pumping into her before giving into his basest instinct.

His mouth found the spot where he'd marked her months ago, and sank his teeth into it.

Molly cried out, and he thrust harder, pushing her to a second climax. The ripples tore through her and she barely felt the dig of his teeth.

His canines cut through the thin skin, and he sucked at the wound. The droplets of blood smeared and his saliva worked its way into her system.

Even in the heat of sex, Sherlock's skills of observation were without parallel. While he moved within her, he lifted his mouth and noted the precise second her wound began to close.

The blood had taken root within her; the potential within her own body, brought to life by his, was sealing the bite even as he watched. She would be wolfkind.

Sherlock wanted to howl with the primal pleasure of it.

Molly cried out his name again, the orgasm shaking her and squeezing his cock tighter.

He pushed her back to her hands and knees, and slid back inside her. He rode her until he came groaning, jerking his hips against her body and his eyes squeezed shut.

Spent and gasping, he fell onto the bed beside his mate, and pulled her tight against him. Before falling asleep, he summoned the energy to draw the furs over them both.

* * *

Sunlight streamed through the loft window, rousing Molly from sleep. The sun was high overhead, which told her she'd slept far later than usual. The bed was empty save for her and the pile of furs. Her body ached from head to toe, and fingertip bruises had formed where he'd held her tight when buried inside her. She tentatively touched her throat, and felt a semi-circle of a bite mark, almost healed. Molly blushed, remembering how wild they'd been with each other.

The skull grinned at her from the table by the bed.

"What are you so happy about?" She waggled her finger at it, and grabbed the skull. Molly opened the trapdoor and dropped the ladder down. She climbed down, holding the skull, and plunked it down on the table next to Sherlock's glass eye contraption.

Sherlock sat quietly looking through the lens, examining what looked like the remains of a chrysalis. He was still undressed.

"Your scent has changed," he remarked without moving. Molly saw his lips curve up behind the tool.

"Good morning to you too," she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Sherlock dropped the glass on the table, and dragged Molly onto his lap, taking her mouth and kissing over her bite mark.

"Almost entirely healed. You're a natural. You'll be hunting within days."

Molly smiled. "I'm nervous about some of that. I mean, if I'll be good at that stuff."

"You'll be fine, it's instinctive. But if you failed to find food any time, I told you I would feed you. You're my mate," he said matter-of-factly.

"Mate," she said. "Do you see that as being the same as husband?"

He shrugged. "Human term. Has no meaning for me. A mate is everything to a wolf; it's life. Husbands and wives are just for human ceremonies and property inheritance. But if you'd prefer that term as well, I have no problem with it."

Molly summoned her resolve. "Yes, it's what I want. I would like us to get married. By a cleric. In the Village. Alright?"

Sherlock kissed her, amused by the worry in her eyes. If she wanted to cement her life to his even more thoroughly, who was he to argue? He stroked the healing bite.

"Alright."

* * *

A week later, Soo Lin wove lilac blooms into Molly's hair, tucking the flowers into the clasp that held back the waves from her face.

Molly smiled nervously. "Does it look nice?"

"It's perfect. You look like a goddess of spring." Soo Lin bent low so the others around them would not hear her whisper. "It's what the women in my clan did for the mating days. I don't know if all wolves did it, but we always did. I thought it was suitable."

"Oh!" The world of the wolfkind had its own culture and history and Molly was only beginning to understand the depth of her new life. "Thank you, Soo Lin. Last night I-" She dropped her voice lower. "I _changed_. And it was easy!"

"Like breathing," Soo Lin agreed. "We'll go for a run when I get back. I'll race you." She grinned, and Molly was again grateful for the gift of her friend.

"Why do I have to wear this? There's no function to it. It smells bad. I don't want it." Sherlock complained loudly.

"Just put it on, Sherlock." Molly glanced back to see John shoving a carnation into her mate's pocket. "It's traditional. No one likes it and we do it anyway, so just do it. Welcome to being a husband."

"Oh that's nice," Mary remarked from her quiet place in the corner where she'd been dozing. The sarcasm was so understated most usually missed it, but John smirked at his wife. She wrinkled her nose at him and he bugged his eyes comically at her.

"I've been meaning to talk to you two. I'll be living at Sherlock's cottage. We're going to make it bigger. But um, my cottage will be empty then. You're still living at the inn…"

John and Mary exchanged looks. "But that's your house."

Molly waved away their objection. "It's the healer's house. People come see me in the dead of night. If you live there, then they will still find a healer. And you need a home of your own, with the baby coming."

The couple stared at her, shocked.

"I'm a healer; I know the signs of a woman with child." Molly giggled. "I don't mean to be nosy, but I would love for you to move into my cottage. Please. Grandmother doesn't want it, and I would like to see a happy family there."

"Oh take the damned cottage already." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can we get on with this? I've got a jar of tongues soaking up vinegar and if I don't get home before nightfall, the experiment will be ruined."

* * *

They stood in the grass, with a few dozen well-wishers onlooking. With Grandmother and Soo Lin beside her, Molly offered her hands to Sherlock in the ritual fashion of their village. Sherlock remembered the motions she'd instructed him in, and offered his in return.

The cleric spoke the words over them, and wrapped the thick red ribbon around their hands, binding them to one another. Molly and Sherlock parroted the phrases when prompted, and she pretended not to notice when Sherlock sighed because the cleric mispronounced every other word.

After the ceremony, there were cakes and oranges to be shared, and toasts offered over ale at the inn. The joyful group began trudging back toward the center of town, and Sherlock hung back. He touched the arm of one of the men, who stopped.

"Did you think I wouldn't see you? Scent you? Obviously I would."

"Your mate invited me, Sherlock."

"That doesn't mean you should have come, Llewellyn."

The silver-haired man shook his head. "I haven't been him for a long time. You'd know that if you would speak to me. I never wanted to be the Prince. I'm Lestrade. Have been for ages."

"A name change means nothing. Why didn't you leave town with the rest of the Lupercalia? Even Henry left with them, and he was from the Village."

"I don't want to run forever. I like it here," he said defiantly, his chin stuck out as stubbornly as Sherlock remembered. "I like the people. The forests are rich and there's enough territory for both of us."

"You like the Constable you've been shagging." Sherlock's eyes darted toward Sally, who was waiting impatiently for them to start walking.

"So?" Lestrade smiled crookedly. "Not all of us live like monks. She's a good woman. I was a constable once myself. Might take up the law again."

"Does she know what you are?"

"No, she believes what the rest of the Village thinks now- that the shapechanging act was a magic trick. Maybe I'll tell her eventually. Don't know yet. Trusting is…still hard."

"Don't I know it," Sherlock said bitterly.

"Oh go cry to someone else," Lestrade said roughly. "I am sorry; I've regretted every day that I assumed you killed my son. What was I supposed to think, with you over his body? It was madness. I never loved anyone the way I loved him, and he was…" His dark eyes watered. "It never goes away. When you love like that. You'll understand someday. When you have your own child. When you watch Molly's belly grow big and you feel the babe kicking and you dream of their future? And then someone takes it away. It never stops hurting. But you were my friend, and I loved you as well. Being a hunter in the woods with you was some of the most fun I ever had. When I became wolf, they changed me to punish me. Idiots. They set me free. I could just be the hunter. No more sodding Prince."

Lestrade's face grew red as he continued. "So you tell me, Sherlock, when you become a father, what will you do if someone tries to hurt your child? When you hold your baby, and then you teach it to walk on two feet. And then to run on four legs. And if someone tries to hurt them?"

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a minute.

"I would kill them. Tear them into pieces without regret."

Sherlock's tense shoulders relaxed.

Lestrade nodded. "I'm not saying it's alright what happened, but can we, I dunno, get a beer and talk sometime? Like civilized wolves, you know?" He smiled, and his deep dimples held all the charm that had made the Prince a heartthrob among the dairywives in the Valley.

Molly. Sherlock saw her nearing, out of the corner of his eye. "Sometime. Maybe."

Lestrade exhaled. "Maybe. That's a start. That could be enough."

Sherlock felt something old and brittle break inside him, and he felt the urge to flee into the woods, to shut down the sensation.

Instead he held his ground. Catching Molly's warm eyes, he said to Lestrade. "Beginning is the hardest part. Ending is easy."

He turned to welcome his wife back into his arms.

* * *

In the forests, they ran. He showed her the secret places between the rocks and trees where he found moss and beetles to study. Deep in the woods, they found herbs she'd never heard of. They played in the streams, and when the fall came again, they rolled in the leaves.

The seasons turned, and the wounds of the time before healed cleanly. There would be other dark times and other stories born, but for Molly and Sherlock, every path in the forest led them back to one another.

_The End_


End file.
